


a little wiser, a little better

by cosmicocean



Series: the world, i'll turn it inside out [1]
Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mostly Gen, Pre-Slash, aziraphale and crowley are really just as together in this as they are in the show, but dirk knows it and references it several times, compatible with book and show, it felt like enough to put it in the tag though, namely it's not explicit and they don't speak of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-08-10 08:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20132224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicocean/pseuds/cosmicocean
Summary: Svlad's at the point where he’s just wandering around London. He’s poked his head inside a pet shop, four restaurants, a hair salon (he doesn’t know anything about hair but he’s sure he can learn on the job), a bakery, and six video stores. Everyone’s turned him down for work, which he thinks is a little inconsiderate, honestly, they don’t even know him. He’s somewhere in Soho when he sees a large bookshop. It looks like it’s been there forever, with lovely large windows and a very nice wood front. The top of the bookstore reads that it’s the store of one Mr. Ezra Fell.Svlad hasn’t tried a bookshop yet. Might as well get shot down there, too.Where Dirk Gently, thoroughly down on his luck, gets a job in a bookstore shortly after getting kicked out of Cambridge, and tries to figure things out.





	1. one

As it turns out, getting a job after getting kicked out of Cambridge somewhat ignominiously is not the easiest thing in the world. 

For one thing, it’s not like Svlad has the longest resume. For another, he’s well aware, even in his bitterness about the world and the universe and all of the absolute bloody bullshit that goes hand in hand with it, that he is still at the beck and call of the stream of creation, and he may not be able to keep what could be called _regular hours_. 

Needless to say, going up to jobs with no skills, no resume, and a need for flexible hours and saying “please hire me” is not an entirely successful escapade. Especially when he’s not overflowing in money at the moment and is therefore focusing on paying for things like “rent” and “food”, not to mention the unpleasant sadness that tends to permeate his whole life, and is therefore walking around with unkempt hair and beat up clothing. It’s not his style, but it’s what the times call for. 

Svlad's at the point where he’s just wandering around London. He’s poked his head inside a pet shop, four restaurants, a hair salon (he doesn’t know anything about hair but he’s sure he can learn on the job), a bakery, and six video stores. Everyone’s turned him down for work, which he thinks is a little inconsiderate, honestly, they don’t even _know_ him. He’s somewhere in Soho when he sees a large bookshop. It looks like it’s been there forever, with lovely large windows and a very nice wood front. The top of the bookstore reads that it’s the store of one Mr. Ezra Fell. 

Svlad hasn’t tried a bookshop yet. Might as well get shot down there, too. 

The knob takes a little bit of jiggling, but it opens well enough. He ignores the posted hours on the window. If he’s supposed to be there, he’ll be there. The inside of the shop feels cozy, sunlight streaming in through the window, surrounded by towers and towers of books. Svlad looks around at all of them and is surprised to find that he gets an overwhelming sense of rightness. Everything syncs up the second he sets foot on the floorboards, the way that normally irritates him for that synchronization existing inside him. 

“Huh,” he says, looking around. “Well. How about that. It’s useful for something after all.” 

“May I help you?” 

Svlad turns around and blinks. There’s a man a little shorter than him standing near one of the columns of books. He’s dressed in a cream and beige suit, golden hair combed but somehow still sticking up round the top of his head, a little polka dot bowtie round his neck. There’s something… strange about him. Nothing in the way he dresses- he looks impeccable. Rather, it’s something else. Maybe in the way he stands. Maybe the air around him. He can’t be sure. He just knows by looking at him that there’s something a little out of joint. 

“Oh! Hello. My name is Svlad Cjelli. I think I’m going to work here.” 

The man blinks. “I’m… sorry?” 

“Are you Mr. Fell?” 

“Yes?” 

“I’m Svlad.” 

“You… mentioned.” 

“And I think I’m going to work here.” 

“I’m not… hiring?” 

Svlad shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. I think we’re both going to find that, whether either of us like it or not, we’re going to find ourselves in the eventual situation that I will indeed be maintaining a position. I think I would like it, though, it’s very nice here. You’ve done a good job at maintaining the stacks. They’re very straight.” 

“Oh, um, thank you, but, I, um…” Fell’s hands flutter. “Perhaps I should rephrase. I’m not… looking for anyone to be working here. At this time. I do a fine enough job on my own." 

“It is rather immaculate, in its way. But regardless.” 

“I think that perhaps it would be best if you were to… move along.” 

Svlad frowns. “So you’re not going to hire me right now?” 

“No. I’m afraid not.” 

“Oh. Well, that’s all right. I’ll come back.” 

“You, er, that’s really not necessary-“ 

“Don’t worry.” Svlad straightens his battered tan suede jacket. Tan isn’t his favorite color, but beggars can’t be choosers at the moment. “I’ll end up back here at some point.” 

_At some point_, naturally, means Svlad shows up the following morning. 

“Hello!” he calls cheerily. “Are you here, Mr. Fell?” 

Mr. Fell appears on top of the second floor of the store, leaning over the balcony, looking fairly perplexed. “Oh. It’s you.” 

“It’s me! Are you willing to hire me yet?” 

“No. Please go _away_.” 

“Fair enough.” Svlad heads out, scuffing his Converse along the sidewalk. 

Svlad waits until the afternoon next time on a hunch. He brushes his jacket off a little, makes sure his jeans, although a bit torn up, look at least clean, runs his hand through his hair, 

and heads for the bookstore. 

“How did you know I wasn’t open this morning?” Mr. Fell asks, looking even more confused than before. 

“Oh, you know. Anyhow. Will you hire me?” 

“No.” 

“_Really?_ Isn’t the third time supposed to be a charm?” 

“I don’t _believe_ in charms.” 

“Are you _sure?_ I mean, aren’t you even willing to open your mind to the _possibility_ of charms, and if so, their tendency to work on round number three?” 

“_Please_ leave.” 

“Hmph. Well. I think you _could_ stand to open your mind to it a little bit.” 

Mr. Fell just points to the door. Svlad sighs and leaves, but doesn’t go far, sitting on the steps to the shop. There’s got to be a way to convince Mr. Fell he’d be a good shop assistant. Could he organize some books in front of him, maybe? Or bribe him? He doesn’t really have the money to bribe anybody. Certainly not someone who definitely seems like they have money. Maybe he could bring him a cat? Mr. Fell seems like he’d like cats. A nice cat. Not one of the cats Svlad finds who claw him and behave quite rudely. 

“What’re you sitting there for?” 

Svlad looks up. A man’s standing in front of him, looking down at him through sunglasses. He’s got red hair that’s about the length of Svlad’s, except it’s a lot nicer kept and cut than his at the moment, and is wearing a nice black waistcoat and black skinny jeans with a red scarf tucked around his neck. His face is vaguely judgmental, which Svlad doesn’t think is very fair, but what’s occupying more of his attention is that he’s got the same strange out of jointness thing going on that Mr. Fell does. 

“The man inside won’t give me a job,” he answers. 

“What d’you want to work for him for?” 

“I like to eat.” 

The man frowns, brow furrowing. “There’s something a little bit off about you, isn’t there?” 

“I’m not the one with the weird sunglasses.” 

One of the man’s eyebrows arches. “Hm.” He calmly strides past Svlad into the bookshop. Svlad shrugs and goes back to counting the people with red Converse who walk by. He’s on thirty four when the man in the skinny jeans comes back. 

“He told me he wants me to get rid of you,” he says, jerking his thumb behind him. “He won’t let me smite you or turn you into something or anything fun, though.” 

“What would you have turned me into?” 

“Maybe a salamander.” 

“I think it’d be hard for a salamander to survive here. There’s a lot of traffic. Maybe you could turn me into something like a rock? I think it’d be easier for a rock.” 

The man sizes him up. “Depends on the sort of rock.” 

“What sort of rock would you turn me into?” 

“What are you?" 

Svlad blinks. “…tired? And maybe a little hungry?” 

“No, I mean-“ he wiggles his fingers. “What’s going on with you?” 

“I… think that’s the answer.” 

“No. There’s something about you. So are you on my side, his side, what’s going on?” 

“I think if I’m on anybody’s side, it’s mine.” Certainly not like there’s anyone else’s side for him to be on. 

The man kneels down and puts his face right in Svlad’s. Svlad stares back. 

“Are you human?” he asks. 

“As far as I know of, but anything’s a possibility.” 

“Are you _sure?_” 

“Is it hard to tell I’m human through the sunglasses?” 

The man stares. Svlad stares back. 

“All right,” he says abruptly. “Get up.” 

“Why? Are you going to turn me into something?” Svlad wonders if the man has some form of gun with a ray that metamorphoses people. He hopes he switches the dial to rock. 

“We’ll see.” The man stands. “Up.” 

Svlad gets up and follows, somewhat reluctantly. He’s never been a rock before. He’s not quite sure how to adjust to the solidity. Hopefully he’ll still have some form of higher brain function. Although, the time he’s been having, perhaps it would be nice to have a vacation from higher brain function. Just some quiet casual non-sentience for a bit.

Mr. Fell emerges from the stacks, looking first hopeful and then crestfallen. “You _said_ you were going to get rid of him. Nonviolently.” 

“I didn’t _say_ nonviolent, I _said_ I wouldn’t smite him or turn him into anything. There’s a lot of room for violence around that.” 

“There wasn’t any violence,” Svlad pipes up, feeling a need to defend the stranger, who’s weird but at least got him through the door. “He just stared at me.” 

Mr. Fell blinks. “Really?” 

The man crosses his arms. “I’ve not gone soft,” he says, a little snappishly. “I have a purpose for not doing anything unpleasant. Look at him.” 

Svlad frowns. “Is that an insult? I don’t have a lot of money, you know, I’m doing my best.” 

“_No_, I’m not talking about the outfit, although-“ the man gives him a once-over. “The jacket’s pretty beat up, isn’t it?" 

He tugs on the jacket a little self-consciously. “It’s not _beat up_, it’s _well loved._” In a manner of speaking. He’s at a baseline of ambivalent about the jacket. 

“I don’t mean look at his _outfit_, I mean _look at him_.” The man pushes Svlad forwards a little, a couple steps closer to Mr. Fell. 

“_Hey_, don’t _shove_, who _shoves-_“ 

“He’s not like the rest of them,” the man continues. “He says he’s human. But he looks off, doesn’t he?” 

Mr. Fell’s face twitches. “Do we _really_ want to be discussing this in front-“ 

“Oh, do I look out of joint to you, too?” 

Both of them turn to stare at him. It feels vaguely like being under a microscope. Fortunately, if there’s anything Blackwing prepared Svlad for, it’s being looked at like he’s a curiosity by people whose intentions he’s unsure of, so he keeps his hands in his pockets and waits. 

“Pardon?” Mr. Fell asks at the same time the man asks “what?” 

“You know. A little bit out of step with the background.” 

“Hmm.” Mr. Fell takes a step closer and peers at Svlad. “No, not one of ours. You’re _sure_ he’s not on _your_ side?” 

“He says he’s on his own team.” 

“Well, your side _lies._” 

“Well, yes, but not to each-“ the man stops. “Well, not if we think it can-“ he stops again. “I don’t think he’s lying.” 

“Are you going to kill me?” Svlad asks. He’d like to know sooner rather than later so he can bolt. He could probably toss a book through the closed window and escape like that. Probably be very cool looking, even, if he can manage to avoid cutting himself on the window.

“Certainly not,” Mr. Fell says at the same time the man says “jury’s still out”. They glare at each other. 

“I think you should hire him,” the man says abruptly. 

Mr. Fell gasps. “_Crowley._” 

The man, evidently Crowley, doesn’t react. “You should.” 

“_Really_, my dear-” 

“We should keep an eye on him. He could be interesting. Or at least good for a laugh.” 

“_You_ hire him, then.” 

“What, to keep my plants in line? I do that best myself, no begonia’s going to be scared of _him_, look at him, he’s scrawny.” 

Svlad frowns. “_You’re_ scrawny.” 

“I’m _skinny_. There’s a difference. You should do it.” 

“I have a way of _doing_ things around here, and I don’t need-“ 

“Oh, come on, what’s the worst he could do?” 

“Start a fire!” 

“Angel, who in the hell is going to be able to burn down _your-_“ 

“Are you actually an angel?” Svlad asks curiously. They both stop fighting to give him that stare again. “You know, I’ve never _met_ an angel, but considering all the other strangeness that permeates my existence, really, it’s not so far fetched. It would explain why you don’t quite blend in, either. Do you have wings?” 

Crowley raises his eyebrows and inclines his head in a way that looks very much like a _well? I told you so, didn’t I tell you so?_ face. Mr. Fell’s face scrunches up. 

“Come on, he’s clearly hard up.” Crowley leans in further, eyebrows going up even higher somehow. “Aren’t your lot all about _good deeds?_” 

Mr. Fell gives him a very nasty look that so far is the only thing out of step with Svlad’s current running angel theory, and then wheels on his heel to face Svlad. “I have a very particular way of sorting my books.” 

“That’s all right, I can learn.” 

“And I keep irregular hours.” 

“That’s all right, too, I’ll need irregular hours, beck and call of the universe and all that.” 

“Hm.” Mr. Fell sighs. “Very well. Just… try not to knock anything over.” 

That… could be trickier. “No problem.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So an important note for y'all reading this fic: Dirk as he is in this fic will not really be the Dirk we know starting in season one. Where I pick up with him is actually not too dissimilar from the state of mind we pick up with Todd at the beginning of season one, and where I'll leave off with him won't quite be where Dirk was at in season one either, considering there'll be a sizable gap of years in between the end of this fic and the beginning of DGHDA season one. He's in the process of becoming Dirk and still won't fully be the Dirk we're familiar with by the end, and if that's not your scene, this may not be the fic for you. That being said, let's get to the regular fic notes!
> 
> -there is no universe where I don't picture Dirk's hair being kind of long and shaggy post Cambridge. I always feel like the combo of depression and little money would lend to less regular haircuts
> 
> -chapter length will be fairly inconsistent, but I'll try to post regularly
> 
> -[This is Dirk's jacket](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/145874475417733501/)
> 
> -I'm still not certain about this first chapter, tbh, so I may do a little editing later, but I've also been a little anxious lately, so idk, could be overthinking it
> 
> -this is compatible with both the book and the show, but I did style it more after the show


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Svlad has his first day of work, Aziraphale tries to keep up a certain human front, and Crowley really sees no point in not being straightforward.

When he shows up for work in the morning, Mr. Fell looks vaguely confused that he’s there, then vaguely annoyed, then extremely polite, which Svlad presumes is covering up the second part. 

“Oh. Um.” Mr. Fell’s hands flutter. “I don’t... know what you should do.” 

“I could dust?” 

He looks a little affronted. “There’s absolutely no dust in here, I assure you.” 

“Sorry. Is that an angelic thing?” 

He sighs. “A new crate of books came in, you can pull them out and go through them, make sure all their pages are there, just check the numbers.” 

“Is that a common concern?” 

“With older books.” 

“You don’t sell new books?” 

Mr. Fell sniffs. “Absolutely not.” 

“All right.” Svlad heads to the back room where he’s gestured, a large open wooden crate. The books are all old and weighty. Some of the covers are a little rough to the touch, while some are positively pristine. He sits cross legged on the floor and reaches out to pick one up. 

“Wait, wait, hang on.” Mr. Fell rushes up. “I almost forgot, here.” He hands Svlad a pair of white gloves. 

“Oh. Um.” Svlad’s a little nonplussed. Does he put them on now? Does he put them on later? Is he supposed to return them, is it a test? “They’re very nice, thank you?” 

“You can’t handle old books in just your hands. Wear these while you work.” 

“_Oh._ All right.” Svlad tugs on them. “Thanks. I don’t know much about books.“ 

A pained look crosses Mr. Fell’s face. “Just... do be careful.” 

“Yes, sir.” Svlad reaches for the book again. It’s a little blue book called _The Gold Bug and the Black Cat_. He slowly and gently turns the pages, checking the little numbers at the bottom of the pages. 

“They smell very nice, don’t they?” Svlad asks when Mr. Fell comes back in an hour later to check his progress on the books. He’s nearly done with this crate and is about ready to move onto the next. 

Mr. Fell pauses. “Pardon?” 

“The books. It’s a very nice sort of smell.” 

“Oh.” Mr. Fell looks a bit pleased. “Yes, they are, aren’t they?” 

Svlad puts _52 Stories for Boyhood and Youth_ in the “all checked” pile. “What causes it?” 

“It’s the things that make up the glue and the ink and the paper and whatnot. They break down over time and make that smell.” 

“It’s very nice.” 

“Yes, I think so, too. Had you never smelled old books before?” 

Svlad shrugs, pushing his hair off to the side. “I grew up somewhere that didn’t... like old things. Everything smelled very... antiseptic.” He taps the top of his stack of books. “This is much nicer.” 

“You didn’t even have to read old books at school? Did you go to school?” 

He shrugs again, trying to pretend the question doesn’t make him a little anxious. “Briefly. Cambridge.” 

“Don’t they have some bloody big sticks up their arses at Cambridge?” Crowley asks, striding into the room. 

“_Really_,” Mr. Fell says disapprovingly as Svlad answers “yes”. 

“There you go, primary source.” Crowley peers down at the stack of books. “Don’t spend much time at places of higher learning anyhow.” 

“And that would be your trouble,” Mr. Fell answers primly. 

“And when was the last time you set foot on a university campus, angel?” Mr. Fell opens his mouth and Crowley cuts him off. “For anything _other_ than a book sale and/or auction.” 

“So if he’s an angel, are you a demon?” Svlad asks curiously. “He does seem a bit more demonic than you do.” 

Crowley looks pleased at the description. Mr. Fell frowns. 

“Angels and demons reside in Heaven and Hell, young man,“ Mr. Fell says sternly. “As you can very well see, this is neither, and therefore it cannot be, you know, possible.” 

“Then how do you explain Gabriel coming down to tell the Virgin Mary she was pregnant? He was an angel, wasn’t he?” 

“How does one explain anything Gabriel does?” Crowley mumbles. Mr. Fell shoots him another look. 

“Do go onto the second crate, when you’ve finished that one,” he tells Svlad. There’s a certain stiffness in his tone still, but it doesn’t sound directed at him this time, more towards Crowley. “And no more of this... angel business.” 

Once Mr. Fell leaves, Svlad looks up at Crowley. 

“Is he really an angel?” he asks. 

“Course,” Crowley says breezily. “Explains some things, obviously. That lot over at Cambridge aren’t the only ones with sticks crammed up there.” 

“And are you really a demon?” 

Crowley smirks. 

“Course. Why else would I be here if not to thwart heavenly machinations?” 

“I thought you might’ve worked for him, at first.” 

He snorts. “I’d rather go for a swim in holy water than work for him. I’d strangle him in a day.” 

“If you’re a demon, shouldn’t you _want_ to strangle him?” 

Crowley’s brow furrows. 

“Watch your cheek,“ he says, and then turns back to head through the door after Mr. Fell. 

“Don’t forget you’re supposed to be paying him,” Svlad hears Crowley say as he approaches the storefront. “Humans don’t naturally have as much money as we’ve got, they’ve got to live and eat and all that.” 

“I _know_,” Mr. Fell says tetchily. “I’ve been _around_ them, and since when do _you_ care about keeping humans _alive,_ anyhow?" 

“I told you, he’s a little bit off. Might be fun to keep an eye on him for the next couple decades or however long this one’ll live for.” 

“A lot longer, hopefully,” Svlad says, walking in. 

“We were just talking about-“ Mr. Fell clearly flounders. “Um. Pornography.” 

Crowley puts his hands on his hips and turns away, shaking his head. 

“Very odd sort of pornography,” Svlad answers brightly. 

“Yes, well, I’m, er-“ 

“Into weird stuff?” 

Crowley makes a funny sort of choking noise. Mr. Fell looks at him desperately, hands wringing. Svlad doesn’t get the impression he’s embarrassed so much as trying to figure out how to dig himself out of a hole.

“You made this bed, angel, now you’ve got to lay in it.” Crowley sounds like he’s barely suppressing laughter. “Which is the whole point, I suppose.” 

“It’s all right, if it makes you feel any better, I know you weren’t really talking about pornography, it’s about my wages and such.” 

Mr. Fell looks extremely relieved. “Yes. Well. I was brought up to not discuss money, so, hence, hence the er, subterfuge. It’s just a very normal… human reaction.” 

“If you say so.” Svlad doesn’t really see the point of being squeamish about money. He’s quite frank about how little he has and doesn’t understand how that should bother anybody. "Anyway, I’ve finished the three crates back there. Do you have anything else for me to do today?” 

“No, I can’t think of anything else. Can I pay you at the end of the week? Is that when these things are done?” 

“I should have enough money to last me til then.” 

Mr. Fell’s brow furrows. “Are you… having issues with financial solvency?” 

“With what?” 

Crowley turns back around, evidently finished with the near laughing fit he was having earlier. “Are you hard up, human?” 

“Oh! Yes, a bit. But don’t worry, I should be good.” 

“Will you _really?_” Mr. Fell looks concerned. “I wouldn’t want you out on the streets.” 

“Oh, I’m not on the streets, I’ve got a little flat, it’s in a basement, one room, you know, all that.” 

Mr. Fell’s frown deepens. “It doesn’t sound like it’s very sanitary.” 

“Nothing wrong with basements,” Crowley mutters. 

“Yes, well, you _would_ say that.” 

“No, it’s quite all right, don’t worry about me.” 

“Are you su-“ 

“For Go- for he-“ Crowley shakes his head sharply. “For fuck’s sake, Aziraphale, will you quit badgering the man, he’s told you all right.” 

“You were _just_ the one-“ 

“Is that your actual name?” Svlad asks. “It’s a nice name.” 

Svlad wonders how many times Mr. Fell gives Crowley that look. Probably pretty often. 

“I had to put Ezra Fell on the name,” he says crossly. “People have a... hard time pronouncing my... old family name.“ 

“My name’s Svlad Cjelli, if there’s anything I understand, it’s that.” Svlad puts his hands in his pockets. “So should I be going along, or-“ 

“Yes, right, that sounds good. I’ll be open tomorrow-“ 

“I’ll know when.” Svlad buttons up his jacket. “Have a nice day, Mr. Fell, Mr. Crowley.” 

“Good afternoon, Svlad.” 

“I don’t have nice days.” 

Angels and demons aren’t that big of a shock for Svlad. 

One would think it might, he thinks as he chews on a granola bar that night, sitting on the curb near his apartment building. The apartment doesn’t have a window, so he tends to stay outside as long as possible to get the fresh air. But ultimately, it doesn’t really matter. He gets yanked around by the stream of creation. It doesn’t really matter who’s directing it. 

Although really, he doubts Mr. Fell and Crowley are directing anything. They both seem nice enough (after a fashion- Crowley isn’t precisely nice but he did get him the job, so that’s a win, as far as he’s concerned), but Svlad can’t picture them actually being in charge of much. So really, whatever’s doing the directing is probably a higher power than them. 

He can live with that. 

Especially considering he doubts Mr. Fell or Crowley would be able to put a good word in for ending his connection to the universe.

Just so long as they don’t know what happened at Cambridge, he thinks, everything will be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did actually look up the books in here as reference! 
> 
> [This is The Gold Bug and the Black Cat.](https://www.abebooks.com/servlet/BookDetailsPL?bi=30325670390)
> 
> [This is 52 Stories for Boyhood and Youth](https://www.abebooks.com/servlet/BookDetailsPL?bi=30089286192)
> 
> [And this is my tumblr, which I forgot to put on the last chapter!](https://cosmicoceanfic.tumblr.com/)


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Aziraphale doesn't understand how much is a lot for personal use of money, but has a concept of how much it is when it comes to paying employees.

“You know, if I clean the windows, more sunlight might get in,” Svlad says cheerily when he walks in the next day (at precisely 11:48 in the morning, when the bookshop opens). “I noticed a bit of a film on them.” 

“Is there?” Mr. Fell peers at them. “I don’t know if I ever washed them, I’m more focused on what’s inside the bookstore.” 

“Can you think of anything else for me to do?” 

“No, I suppose the windows would be best.” 

“Do you have anything to wash with?” 

“Oh. Um.” Mr. Fell starts patting his pockets. “Hm. Hang on, I think I’ve got some money in the back, you can go buy supplies.” 

“All right.” Svlad waits patiently, looking around, trying to think of other things he could do around the place. Mr. Fell returns with a wad of bills he shoves at Svlad. 

“Here. I think this should be enough.” 

Svlad peers at the bills. “You’ve given me a hundred and fifty pounds.“ 

“Will that not be enough?“ 

“…so angels have no concept of money, then?” 

Mr. Fell purses his lips. “As I have stated earlier, I have concerns on speaking about money.” 

“Are you ever going to stop bullshitting me on the angel front?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Are you ever going to tell me that I’m annoying you or are you just gonna dance around it? Is it because it’s not very angelic to do so?” 

Mr. Fell narrows his eyes. “Are you going to continue to try and annoy me?” 

Svlad beams. “Oh, I don’t even do that on purpose!” 

He sighs. “Please go buy the cleaning supplies.” 

“Gracious, that’s a lot of money.” Mr. Fell looks over the top of his glasses at the pile Svlad dumps on his desk that’s leftover from buying the Windex and the paper towels. 

“Do you actually need glasses?” 

“I like them.” 

Good an answer as any. “Any window you want me to start with?” 

“Not particularly. Try not to get Windex on the books.” 

“I’ll do my best.” 

“The windows?” Crowley asks. Svlad doesn’t look up from the stepladder he’s balancing on. 

“Obviously.” 

“Good. I’ve been badgering him for decades to take care of them.” 

“Did you actually convince him to hire me so I could do all the stuff around the place that you’ve been pestering him to do?” 

“It’s a perk.” Crowley strolls by him. “Aziraphale! I need to talk to you about something going on in Scotland!” 

“It’s _always_ Scotland!” Svlad hears as the muffled response. 

Over the next four days that Svlad spends working in the shop, he comes to accrue a variety of information: 

-Mr. Fell enjoys sushi, and brightens up whenever Svlad asks him any questions about books 

-Crowley is there often 

-Svlad can’t actually be sure what exactly Crowley’s position is in the situation with Mr. Fell, but he always has a new reason to be there 

-Mr. Fell plays a lot of classical music on a small record player that looks more like a Victrola 

-Crowley always looks at the Victrola like it’s bitten him and mumbles about outdated technology 

-Mr. Fell seems vaguely confused by him, but doesn’t seem to want to use him for anything, and Svlad considers that as a win 

“This seems like too much money,” Svlad says, peering at the check Mr. Fell’s given him. 

“Oh? Is it?” 

Crowley snorts from where he’s looking over a small red book. Svlad looks over at him. 

“Is he overpaying me on purpose?” 

“Certainly not,” Mr. Fell sniffs. “I am very… discerning in matters of such… matters.” 

He snorts again. “Good deeds’ll be the death of you, angel.” Svlad doesn’t miss the fact that he puts the book down very gently, though. 

“It’s my _job_,” Mr. Fell snaps, before he quickly straightens, glancing at Svlad. “To… pay people for… goods and services.” 

“And you did recommend he hire me as a form of good deed.” Svlad turns back. “I feel a bit like I’m robbing you, though.” 

“_Blind_,” Crowley stresses. 

“Have _you_ ever robbed anyone blind?” 

“Blind, young, old, short, tall, I robbed someone who had a _really_ big hatchet once-” 

Mr. Fell sighs loudly. “Please take your paycheck, Svlad.” 

“Even though it’s-“ Crowley suddenly trips over what appears to be his own feet, landing promptly on his ass and looking a little startled. His brow furrows like his eyes are narrowing. 

“You’re a right bastard,” he says irritably. 

“Divine intervention, surely,” Mr. Fell answers serenely. 

“Yeah, right, _yours_-“ 

“Can you do that, then?” Svlad asks. “Cause trouble?” 

“He can thwart wiles.” Crowley picks himself off the floor. “Although I hardly think that _counts_.” 

“Who can say, in the eyes of the Almighty-“ 

“If the next word that comes out of your mouth is _ineffable_, I swear to-“ 

“I’ve decided to go home and take my money with me,” Svlad says loudly. “Because the amount of fighting is making me feel awkward. Thank you very much for the surplus of it and please enjoy the rest of your argument. I am going to go eat a burrito and feel less awkward someplace else.” 

“See you next week,” Mr. Fell says brightly, turning from Crowley, who’s still glowering. “And do enjoy your burrito.” 

“Make sure he doesn’t trip you on the way out,” Crowley adds sourly. 

Svlad spends time in the library that week reading about old books. 

Because the thing is, Svlad tends to consider employment, as a rule, impermanent. People don’t want to hire him for anything for very long. And he doesn’t mind. He’s not very good at most things, for one- if there’s anything Blackwing’s drilled into him, it’s that. Cambridge only served to provide further data on that front. But for another, he’s not sure what the point of a longterm job is when he’s going to be yanked to and fro like a leaf on a stream. He doesn’t care if his employers don’t like him (much) and he doesn’t care if he doesn’t keep a job for long (much) and he doesn’t care whether anyone in the world at all likes him (much). 

This job, though… this job Mr. Fell is politely bewildered but not because of what he can do, only because he’s been bullied into it by Crowley. They don’t think he’s a freak, or maybe any more of a freak than they consider the rest of humanity to be (he can’t be sure how Mr. Fell feels and feels more or less sure about Crowley). 

And, well, he can work with that, for as long as he’s allowed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's not nearly enough of Aziraphale being a bastard man in this fic (just how it shook out), but I tried to slip in instances of him being a little shit every now and again.


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where some healthy book adjacent bonding happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter was so short I figured I'd post this one a little earlier than I normally would!

“Any more crates of books?” Svlad asks brightly when he walks in at 12:39. Mr. Fell looks up from the book he’s surveying. 

“Oh, hello. Yes, three. Do you mind?” 

“Nope.” Svlad shrugs off his jacket and looks around. “Um. Is there anywhere I can… put this down? It’s suede, you know, I overheat easy.” 

“Oh, yes, of course. Certainly the danger of suede. Um, there’s a coatrack over there.” 

Svlad hangs it on the coatrack, where several scarves and a wide brimmed black hat rest. “Thank you.” 

“Of course. The crates are in the back room." 

“Mr. Fell?” 

Mr. Fell looks up from whatever book he’s looking over as Svlad enters. “Mm?” 

“There’s a book from 1455 and this feels like one of those things where winging it may result in bad things happening to the book and my immediate firing.” 

Mr. Fell does a double take. “1455?” 

Svlad pulls his hair behind him. He’s been using the same crappy little ponytail holder for weeks but he’s out of any others. “I checked the opening page and then I put it down because I was a bit frightened to touch it.” 

Mr. Fell speedwalks ahead of him, Svlad on his tails. He kneels by the crate Svlad was working on and tugs on his gloves, delicately pulling out the book. “My goodness gracious. It’s been ages since I’ve seen this.” 

“What is it?” 

“A Gutenberg Bible.” Mr. Fell’s inspecting it closely. “It’s one of the first books printed in the West. _Extremely_ valuable, you know. Couldn’t get mine out of Poland before… well, a long time ago, but I’ve got it back now, that’s what matters.” 

“Oh. Shouldn’t it be stored in somewhere with a…” Svlad flails internally to remember his reading over the weekend. “A controlled temperature?” 

Mr. Fell smiles. “Nothing’s going to befall these books as long as they’re here.” He blinks. “Hang on, I thought you said you didn’t know anything about books?” 

“I did a little bit of reading over the weekend. I’m not a big fan of research, to be honest with you, wasn’t quite sure how to go about it, but I managed.” 

“Oh. That’s. Well. Thank you for… looking at things.” 

“Thank you for putting up with me even though you don’t want me here.” 

Mr. Fell looks awkward. “I’m just… particular. About my books. To be honest, I don’t even want anyone else buying any, it’s why-“ 

“Your hours are wonky and you glower at everyone who comes in who isn’t Crowley although sometimes also Crowley and you got very twitchy every time I approached one of the book stacks and it looked like I was going to trip over it and send them everywhere?” 

“…correct.” 

“It’s all right.” Svlad neatly straightens the stack of books he’s already gone through. “I’m a minor disaster. And Crowley’s very easy to glower at." 

“Well. I will admit to having had my… reservations, but you haven’t caused any trouble and your company is fairly pleasant, so, really, it’s fine.” Mr. Fell gently wraps the Bible in a cloth. “A good deed, on Crowley’s part.” 

Svlad’s not sure what happens when a demon does good deeds. “Probably gave him hives.” 

“Mm, probably.” Mr. Fell blinks sharply, quickly shaking his head. “No, _no,_ there’s no reason for a good deed to give Crowley hives, I’m sure he’s fine.” 

“Are you and Crowley dating?” 

Mr. Fell nearly fumbles the book, quickly recovering and putting it on a nearby table. “_What?_ No, no, I assure you, this is a purely platonic exchange of… exchanging.” 

“Why? Is it because you have standards?” 

Mr. Fell chokes. “I’m sorry?” 

“It’s all right if you do, you know. He’s a bit too flash, tries pretty hard as far as his image goes. I like him, but still-“ 

“Crowley is a fine individual,” Mr. Fell interrupts. “Who… does admittedly try _very_ hard, but, you know, he really does have a spark in there, a very good and decent spark, otherwise I wouldn’t… enjoy his company so much. But it is a purely platonic business work associate Arrangement.” 

“Is there a capital letter in that arrangement?” 

“It’s only a… business… capital letter.” 

Svlad shrugs. “I like him, whatever the situation,” he repeats. “I appreciate his honesty.” 

He does, really. Crowley does indeed try pretty hard, and he can be a little abrasive, but, well, Svlad’s very familiar with trying hard and rubbing people the wrong way, although he’s not sure he’s doing it on purpose quite so much as Crowley does. He’s not sure what it means for him that he feels so amicable towards a demon, but Mr. Fell’s an angel and managing all right, so he’s probably going to be fine. 

Svlad’s hair pops out of the holder and he curses, patting around on the floor for it. “Aha!” He holds it up triumphantly, patting it lightly. There’s no dust on it but still feels good to shake it a bit after being on the floor. 

“It looks a little stretched out.” 

Svlad shrugs. “I’m not up to spending the money to buy any scrunchies yet. This is the last one I’ve got.” He carefully pulls it back. He likes scrunchies. Something about the general way they seem to pop to him.

“No haircut?” 

“I’m unwilling to spend that money, either.” Svlad looks around. “Should I go through the rest of the crate?” 

“Yes. That sounds good.” 

“How do you find space for all the books?” Svlad asks when he comes back from the back room. 

Mr. Fell smiles as he carefully slides a book into a shelf. “Space finds them.” He turns around to face Crowley, who Svlad’s only just noticed slouching artfully over a chair. “He held a Gutenberg today, you know. Not many people who can say that.” 

“Living people, you mean,” Crowley observes. 

“That is true,” Svlad agrees. “I mean, lots of people before me have probably handled one.” 

“And a few non human entities as well.” 

Mr. Fell ignores that last comment. “Yes, well, he’s a living human being who knew how to properly store one, so credit where credit is due.” 

“Probably the poorest one to ever hold one, too,“ Crowley adds, gesturing with a beer Svlad’s fairly certain he wasn’t holding before. “Never were things for anyone but the rich, in those days.” 

“I’ll take what I can get.” Svlad pulls his hair down to put it back up and take care of the loose strands coming down around it, and blinks down at the pleasantly yellow scrunchie that comes with it. 

“Didn’t I have a ponytail holder before?” he muses aloud, which is a rhetorical question, because he knows very well he did. 

“Perhaps you’ve been mistaken.” 

Crowley looks over at the scrunchie. “_Yellow_, angel? _Really_?” 

“I like yellow.” Svlad beams it. “It’s very nice. Thank you.” 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I’m glad you like yellow.” 

Svlad shrugs on his jacket. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Mr. Fell.” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Svlad. Oh, um-“ Mr. Fell looks over at him. “Aziraphale is fine, if you like.” 

Svlad feels his beam widen. “Aziraphale. Yes. Good. I’ll see you.” 

He feels a little giddy. _Trust._ He’s so unused to it. He almost feels like skipping, walking out of the bookshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you guys reading aren’t in the Dirk Gently fandom but are reading anyway! Hi! Thank you for following me over here! To clear up any confusion about names: canonically, Dirk’s birth name is Svlad, but he changes it later on. I don’t think there’s anything else to let y’all in on for this fic right now, but if you have any questions about the Dirk Gently universe that you feel would help you read this, let me know in a comment and I’ll try and help!
> 
> -y’all KNOW that I had to include Sir Terry’s hat and scarf I can’t get teary whenever I see them in the show and NOT include them
> 
> -I like the idea that Aziraphale doesn’t always know what books are arriving at the bookshop because it’s a surprise this way
> 
> -I knew very early on that Crowley and Dirk’s dynamic in this fic was going to almost entirely be giving each other shit as a way of relating to each other, and one of the very first ideas for a specific chunk of dialogue for this story was the “is it because you have standards?” little bit, which was almost immediately followed by Dirk clarifying that he likes him, because I think Crowley and Dirk are ultimately deeply alike and neither are currently willing to admit it further than “yeah we’re vaguely similar”
> 
> -oh Lord, heal this ponytail holder


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where there is some food adjacent bonding.

When Svlad comes to work the next day, Crowley’s lounging in the bookshop, a Queen record playing instead of the regular pleasant classical music. He’s not reading anything, instead staring at the ceiling. 

“Where’s Aziraphale?” he asks. 

“Doing a favor. I’m keeping an eye on the shop.” 

“Can angels do favors for demons?” 

“We have an Arrangement.” 

There’s that capital letter again. “So he trusts you enough to look after the books while he’s gone?” 

Crowley looks nonplussed, which may be a first since Svlad’s knowing him. “I, I don’t, no, I wouldn’t call it _trust_, more he just doesn’t want anyone sneaking in and taking anything-“ 

“He wouldn’t leave _me_ to do it.” 

Crowley continues giving him that nonplussed look. “What does Aziraphale have you do round here, anyway?” 

“Go through crates, mostly.” 

Crowley looks around. “Better not. I don’t want to hear Aziraphale’s complaining if you do something wrong while I’m in charge.” 

“I’m not sure you’re in charge of me.” 

“Course I am.“ Crowley shrugs, leaning forwards. “Tell you what. Consider it a... paid vacation day. That way you don’t accidentally muck anything up and I don’t get in trouble for you accidentally mucking anything up. So, you know, run along.” 

Svlad scowls. “I’m not a _dog._” 

“Might as well be, human, you don’t live much longer.” 

“Can’t I just stay here?” 

“Why?” 

Svlad shrugs awkwardly. “I... like it here.” He does. For a variety of reasons, one of which is that he feels safe. No one is going to bother him in this bookshop where an angel and a demon spend their time. No Blackwing, no Riggins, no nobody. 

“Hm. Well. Be careful.” 

Svlad takes his jacket off, looks around, and, feeling too awkward and uncertain to do anything else, lays on the floor and props his jacket up under his head as a pillow. “So what song is this?” 

“Go- Sata- fucking hell, you don’t know who Queen is?” 

“I _know_ who Queen is, I have a _pulse_, I just don’t know the _song._” 

“Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy.” Crowley slouches even further. “_A Day at the Races_, 1976. And it’s _very_ good, so you should know it.” 

“I like the tune.” 

“Good. Hope for you yet.” 

“Do you think I can read any of these books?” Svlad asks, staring up at the ceiling, his hands resting on his stomach. 

“Dunno. I mean, maybe. No one but Aziraphale’s ever read ‘em since he got them.” 

“It’s just they’re pretty old and I don’t want to damage them.” 

Svlad listens to Crowley stand and walk through the shelves. “What d’you want to read?” 

“It’s all right, I can just find a Waterstones-“ 

“_Don’t._” He can hear the grimace in Crowley’s voice. “Don’t ever bring a Waterstones bag in here, Aziraphale can _smell_ it. Just tell me what you want.” 

“Um.” Svlad thinks it over. It’s been a long time since he’s read for fun. Maybe even since he was a kid and his mother read to him. He doesn’t know what he likes. “What do _you_ recommend?” 

Crowley blows all the air out of his cheeks. Svlad wonders if he actually needs to breathe. “I’m the last person you want to be asking.” 

“Um.” He flails around internally, eventually picking the first one that comes to mind in the sudden wasteland of his brain. “Mystery.” 

Crowley’s silent for a few moments as Svlad listens to him walk around. Then something drops on his chest and he wheezes slightly. 

“There you are,” he says. “If you do anything to it, I’m throwing you right under the bus with the angel. I don’t need to go around getting discorporated.“ 

Svlad picks the book up and peers at the cover. “_A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of Four_,” he reads aloud. “What’s this?” 

“Sherlock Holmes.” Crowley settles into a chair. “Never liked the mediums Doyle used to hang around with. Bunch of con artists.” 

“Shouldn’t you _like_ con artists?” 

“I _hated_ spiritualism. Bunch of two bit liars profiting off grief and war and all manner of human tragedy. They gave me a certificate downstairs for it. Never would have thought of it myself. Only thing to be spoken for them was they had style.” 

“I thought Sherlock Holmes was detective stories.”

“They were.”

“So you’re just old man ranting?”

“Keep it up, human, and I’ll stain each and every page and tell Aziraphale you couldn’t be stopped.”

Halfway through _Study in Scarlet_, Svlad’s stomach starts audibly growling. 

“Make it stop doing that.” Svlad looks up to see Crowley, slouched in his chair and doing funny tricks with a yo yo. 

“Make what stop which?” 

“Your stomach. The noise. S’annoying.” 

“In a bit.” Svlad turns a page. “So is it cocaine he’s on?” 

“Yeah, there’s quite a bit of cocaine in those. Can’t you just go and eat something? I don’t want to have to listen to that the whole rest of the day.” 

“Hm.” Svlad sits up, wincing and stretching a little at the stiffness of his limbs. “I suppose. Is there a Taco Bell around, or-“ 

“Ugh.” Crowley snaps the yo yo back and gives Svlad a disgusted look. “Don’t eat there.” 

“It’s _cheap-_“ 

“Yeah, I’m well aware, Taco Bell is one of mine. You’ll _reek_ of it, and then not only do I have to deal with it but I have to deal with Aziraphale smelling it tomorrow. I‘m not having that. Go somewhere nicer.” 

“I’m saving to buy a real flat and I’m normally not here for lunch so I didn’t bring anything.” 

Crowley groans loudly. “Humans,” he mumbles. “Always trying my patience. Come on, get up and get your coat.” 

“What? Why?” 

“I’m thwarting one of Heaven’s finest’s postulations on the evils of things like Taco Bell. Follow me.” 

“Does he know you call him Heaven’s finest?” 

“No, and if he finds out, you’ll be mulch for my plants.” 

Svlad self consciously tugs at his jacket as he looks around. Crowley looks completely unfussed at how nice this place is, and how distinctly not nicely dressed Svlad is. There’s a lot of blue on the chairs and walls, as well as a lot of gold. 

“I think everyone in here could afford to buy a small country,” he whispers to Crowley. “Isn’t this the sort of place that requires a reservation three months in advance?” 

“Not if you’re me.” Crowley’s scrutinizing the menu. “True of anyplace.” 

“Do you warp reality? _Can_ you?” 

Crowley snorts. “_No_. I just, y’know. Nudge folk along a bit. Push things around. Warping reality, it’s a cheater’s game. Doing the work yourself, _that’s_ some real magic.” 

Svlad picks up the menu and winces at the prices. “I could eat off money like this for a week. Do you pay for food?” 

“Depends on if I know the chef and they piss me off. But usually, yes. Money corrupts, you know. Excellent use of wiles.“ 

Svlad’s begun to pick up that Crowley often says he’ll do things as a way of corrupting people when it’s actually a fairly nice thing to do. He feels like it won’t be well received if he points this out, though. “What do you order?” 

“What do you want?” 

“I don’t know what some of these words mean and I’m not used to eating nice food.” 

“Have you never eaten nice food? Not even when you were a kid?” 

Sitting in a Blackwing cafeteria as a child flashes in front of Svlad’s eyes, before his growth spurt when he could still swing his legs and barely have his feet touch the ground, absolute silence ringing as everyone stares down at their trays, not even looking over at the person next to them, pushing his mostly tasteless food around with a plastic fork. “No.” 

Crowley looks at him for a long moment, and even though he can’t see his eyes, Svlad feels like he’s being studied and dissected. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. 

“Right,” Crowley says briskly, returning his attention to his menu. “You know, Aziraphale got me onto oysters centuries ago, and they’re pretty good when done correctly.” 

“So what is it about you?” Crowley asks, taking a sip of his wine before going back to his salmon tartare. 

Svlad takes a nibble of the cranberry that’s around his pork belly. He’s never had cranberries before. He blinks a little at the tartness, but he thinks he likes them. “What’s what about me?” 

“You know. The weirdness. Can’t quite put my finger on it. But you know, so. Tell me.” 

Svlad shrugs. “Well. I’m just... different, I suppose.” 

“Yes, yes, I know that. Tell me what it is, though.” 

He sighs. “Well, it was explained to me that I... I am... tuned into the universe.” 

“You’re what?” 

“It’s... it’s, um. I... know things. And it’s... complicated. I just, I sort of get... pulled into situations where I’m supposed to be, and it’s like... it was described to me that I’m a... leaf on the stream of creation. I find things, cats, murder weapons, a whole lot of things, and sometimes I just... know things. I’m...” Svlad pauses, thinking of his disastrous end at Cambridge. “Relatively good at guesswork. It’s... I don’t know really how to explain it.” 

“Well, who explained it to you the first time?” 

Svlad’s hand tightens around his fork. “Somebody else. A long time ago.” 

Crowley’s giving him that evaluating face again. “Not a good someone.” 

He shrugs again, looking down at the pork belly. 

“Hm.” Crowley raises an eyebrow. “And you sure you don’t want something to drink?” 

“If I drank over what was in my past, I’d never stop drinking.” It’s franker than he intended and he winces. Crowley doesn’t seem to notice. 

“I forget you lot can’t do that sometimes. Should’ve seen me after the Spanish Inquisition.” 

“Did you come up with that?” 

“Nope. Never would’ve thought of it in a million years. Didn’t find out about it until I got the commendation. Then I drank long and heavily.” Crowley takes another sip of wine. “You know, they have a soufflé here that’s out of this world, or so the angel says, not big into soufflé myself. I like the flaming creme brûlée, though. They light it right here.“ 

Svlad brightens. “Sounds cool.” 

“I hope yesterday was all right?” Aziraphale says when Svlad arrives the next day. “I do hope Crowley wasn’t too much trouble, I’m sorry I forgot to tell you.” 

“No, it was... good. I can work on the days he’s here when you’re off... doing whatever it is you were doing.” 

“Oh. Good.” 

“Oh, um.” Svlad pretends it’s just occurring to him now instead of having thought how best to approach it since yesterday. “I wanted to ask, Crowley let me read a book from here yesterday.” 

Aziraphale’s brow creases. “Did he put it back in the right place?” 

“Oh, yes.” Svlad had expected him to maybe pull a neat trick where he expertly threw the book and it would land right in its slot, but instead he'd carefully and gently slid the book back into the bookshelf. 

“That’s all right, then.” 

“Actually, I, um, I was wondering if maybe I could... keep reading it?” 

Aziraphale looks a little startled, then smiles. “Yes. Of course. Why not?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Crowley probably would have been ready to kick him out if he hadn’t known what Queen was
> 
> -personal headcanon that Kill Bill sirens go off whenever Aziraphale hears the name of a bookstore chain
> 
> -Crowley begrudgingly doing good things under the guise of wanting to do Hell’s bidding is one of my personal favorite tropes, imo


	6. six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where a nightmare is had, and a scarf found.

_The_ _walls are cold, the thing that always strikes Svlad as odd when he brushes up against them. They keep putting the cards in front of him face down and he has to guess he always has to guess except it’s not supposed to be guessing he’s supposed to know and he doesn’t know and the speakers in the room blare that awful sound and then the_ _WRONG that trumpets out right after and they always look so disappointed and he shouldn’t care but he does and maybe one day if he’s good enough he can get out-_

A hand on Svlad’s shoulder. He jerks hard enough from where he was slumped over the desk and the book he was going through that his chair rocks back. He flails and manages to catch himself, gripping the edge of the desk. 

“What,” he rasps. “What-“ 

“You, er.” Aziraphale looks awkward. “Were... twitching. I thought it was best.” 

“Yeah. Yeah.” Svlad leans his head on his hands, propping his elbows up on the desk. “Yes. Okay.” He suspects it was more than twitching. He’s not a still sleeper. God, this is embarrassing. 

“Are you...” He fidgets with his hands. “All right?” 

“Um. It’s.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “What Crowley told you happened when I was a kid and it hangs around.” This week has been the most he’s ever talked about Blackwing. What a landmark. “That’s all.” 

“How do you know Crowley told me anything?” 

Svlad opens his eyes to shoot Aziraphale probably the sharpest look he’s ever given him. It’s not rocket science and he doesn’t want to go over even the barest details he told Crowley again. 

“Right. Sorry.” 

Svlad shakes his head. “S’fine.” He wipes a hand over his face. “I’m sorry I fell asleep. I spent last night chasing after a rabbit.” 

“...why?” 

“Cause that’s what I was supposed to do.” He doesn’t know why. He just knew he saw a rabbit with a little collar and knew he was supposed to hunt it down. He wishes he hadn’t- Rodolpho had kicked him a few times. His arm still aches. “I’m sure the reason will become evident eventually.” 

Aziraphale purses his lips. 

“Well,” he says eventually. “You don’t need to worry about sleeping here. You can sleep any time you like. That’s good for you, I’ve heard.” 

“Only heard?” 

“I... don’t sleep very often.” 

Svlad pulls his jacket a little tighter. He doesn’t even feel like pestering Aziraphale to get more information on angels. “I can sleep at home.” 

“I thought people could sleep anywhere.” 

He can’t help a little smile at that. “I _can_. I just... won’t sleep while I’m working.” 

“Well. It really doesn’t matter to me. I mean, we both know I’m not adept at finding things for you to do, anyway. So, you know, sometimes I can find work for you to do and sometimes we can find... worklike experience. Like... sleeping.” Aziraphale brightens. “Or, or perhaps reading! You asked if you could keep reading and this way you can come and, and you can read. I mean, how are you supposed to work in a bookshop if you don’t familiarize yourself with what you’re working with?” 

Svlad swallows. He can feel himself shrinking into his coat a little bit. It’s been a longer time than he can remember that anyone’s tried to make him feel better. “Yes. Yes, um. That sounds like it’s... wise. Best for me to keep gainful employment and all that.” 

“Yes. Good. We’ve... worked out a system best for all of us, then.” Aziraphale hovers awkwardly before he rapid fire pats Dirk on the shoulder three times. “Excellent.” 

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. His eyes feel a little wet. Hopefully, Aziraphale doesn’t notice. “Thanks.” 

“No trouble.” 

“What was Conan Doyle like?” Svlad asks curiously as he puts _Study in Scarlet_ back. 

Aziraphale is inspecting something on one of the bookshelves. “I’ve read from primary sources that he seemed pleasant enough.” 

“Crowley says he used to hang out with con artists.” 

“Well, yes, that is true, Crowley is right on that one.” 

“I heard that.” Crowley breezes in, headed straight for the coatrack. “No takebacks. Angel, have you seen my red and blue scarf, I think I left it here last time I was around.” 

“I don’t think so, no. What did it look like?” 

“Well, it was a scarf, and it was red and blue, as I may have mentioned.” 

Aziraphale ignores that, turning back to Svlad. “I’m not extremely interested in the whole... spiritualism business, they’re quite duplicitous, I tend to... lose my temper on encountering them.” 

“Did you fuck with them at all?” Crowley asks, looking up from where he’s checking under the coatrack. 

Aziraphale sniffs. “If I _had _been alive for such a thing and known any at the time, I’m sure I would have done things such as tripping them or making it hard for their customers to gain entrance or perhaps... caused a few small fires.” 

Crowley looks amused. “Fires?” 

“Extremely non lethal fires! Just the sort that would make a building clear out and, you know, make patrons demand their money back.” 

“What would you do?” Svlad asks Crowley. 

He grins, wide and a little menacing. “Lurk in the shadows and have some fun with the swindler’s personal secrets.” 

Svlad wonders how often Aziraphale ignores Crowley. Probably frequently. “I rather liked Wilde more, he was a lovely fellow.” 

“Yeah, to you,” Crowley mutters. 

“Well, he was! He was always very polite and charming, always offering to have me over or buy me dinner or drinks.” He coughs, glancing at Svlad. “If, of course, I had ever known him.” 

Crowley’s stopped searching for his scarf and is now squinting at Aziraphale _extremely_ suspiciously. “_Did_ he?” 

“_If_ I had known him personally, and known you as well at that time, although not _precisely_ at that time seeing as you would have been asleep for a bit, yes, I’m sure it would have all been true. Very polite and friendly.” 

Crowley makes a face. “_Very polite and friendly_,” he mimics, glaring at him. 

The back of Svlad’s neck itches. He turns around to see a bundle of fabric resting on one of the stacks of books. He stands on his tiptoes and pulls down a blue and red scarf patterned with what is (in his opinion) an unnecessarily gaudy pattern of a “AC” in a diagonal style. “Is this it?” 

Crowley rears back, looking a bit startled out of his reverie of making an unpleasant grimace-y sort of face at Aziraphale, who looks a bit confused but annoyed. Svlad would guess the latter is on principle. “Yeah, that’s it.” 

Svlad walks up to him and holds it out. “Are you annoyed because Wilde shot you down?” 

Crowley glares at him, then snatches it out of his hand. It manages to give a vague feeling of rope burn despite the fact Svlad's pretty sure it’s made of silk and can’t actually give him rope burn. “Come on, angel.” 

“What? Where are we going?” 

“Dinner. And drinks.” 

“Isn’t it a little early for dinner?” 

“Come _on._” Crowley wraps his scarf around his neck and whips it over his shoulder. “Let’s go.” 

Aziraphale still looks confused, but shrugs. “Svlad, would you mind leaving early so I can lock up?” 

“Yeah. Of course.” 

Aziraphale pauses before he reaches for his coat. “How did you know where it was, by the way?” 

Svlad shrugs. “I just did. That’s how it works.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually started writing this chapter just around when the fandom jumped on the Aziraphale and Oscar Wilde bandwagon and it's pretty delightful that we all just sort of got there at the same time. Unfortunately in this fic it's played pretty straight, but naturally I am always here for the headcanons where Aziraphale knows damn well what this sort of thing means with Oscar Wilde.
> 
> Next up is some angst, I'm afraid.


	7. seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where there is struggling with one's place in the universe, and Crowley gives advice.

_That’s how it works_ comes into play the very next day, when Svlad begins his three day streak of missing work due to the universe. 

There’d been less stream of creation fuckery since he started working at the bookstore. It had been nice. Only low level interference, to the point that he’d been starting to think maybe, just maybe, if he kept working at the bookstore, Aziraphale and Crowley’s presence would be enough to ward it off and he could live a semi-normal life. 

Foolishness, Svlad thinks gloomily as he lies on the curb outside his building after three days of running for his life, seeing eleven people stabbed with a magic flying knife, and just too much blood and death than he should ever have to see. Absolute foolishness. Which would be why he’s now lying on the sidewalk, a little tipsy and beer bottle in hand, eyes closed so he doesn’t have to look up at the street lamp. 

At some point, the light he can still see shining behind his eyelids is dimmed out. He opens them. 

Crowley is standing over him, looking down, hands in his black jean pockets. The streetlight lights up his red hair like a halo and Svlad can’t help a little laugh at the irony. 

“Glad to see you’re having a good time,” Crowley says severely, giving him the impression he’s being glared at even though he can’t see through those funny little sunglasses he wears. “You’ve worried the angel sick.“ 

“What d’you care?” Svlad mumbles. 

“It’s making my life harder, he’s all... mopey. So, you know. Get up and get your shit together.” 

Svlad scoffs. “Do I preach to _you_ when _you’re_ lying drunk in the gutter? _No_.” 

“Why _are_ you in the gutter, anyway? Don’t you have an apartment?” 

“S’got a window this-“ Svlad infinitesimally holds his fingers apart. “Big. I don’t wanna be in there.” 

Crowley sees the window he gestures to and strides over to it to peer inside. Svlad reluctantly sits up because Crowley’s probably going to drag him up anyway when he comes back. 

“You’re right,” he says when he returns. “Depressing as all hell. Almost literally.” 

“Would’ve thought you could just-“ Svlad tries to snap his fingers but he can’t make it go. He wiggles his fingers. “Poof over.” 

“Has no style.” Crowley sits next to him, legs sprawling over the street.

Svlad leans his forehead against his knees, putting the bottle down next to them, suddenly dizzy. “Nyyyyyyyyyugh.” 

“You’re not even fully drunk.” 

“M’drunk enough. Leave me alone.” 

Crowley doesn’t leave him alone. Instead, he stretches, leaning lazily on his elbows. “Rough week, then?” 

“I’m tired of knowing what the inside of people look like.” Svlad lifts his head, staring straight ahead at the street. “When the CIA told me I was going to be helping people they left out the part where I’d have to be constantly looking at dead ones.” He looks over at Crowley. “Is the CIA one of yours? Or Blackwing?” 

Crowley wrinkles his nose. “I don’t really do... _America._” 

“Hm. That’s good. If you’d had anything to do with Blackwing I would’ve had to hit you and I don’t-“ he squints. “I don’t think I’d be good at it right now.” 

Crowley snorts. “You wouldn’t be able to do it sober, either. What would the CIA want with you, anyway?” It’s his turn to squint, scrutinizing Svlad. He’s pretty sure Crowley’s squinting anyway. His forehead’s all wrinkled. “You don’t look like a killing machine.” 

“Track people down. Intuit the universe. Solve things they needed solved. M’like a... human magnifying glass. Or a... a detector thingie.” He waves a hand. “Magic wand kinda thing, maybe. I dunno.” He straightens a little and puts on his best Riggins voice. “_You’ll be an invaluable asset, Svlad, you’ll be helping so many people, Svlad, when you grow up you’ll do so much good for us, Svlad-_“ he blows a raspberry. “Wanker.” 

“Hang on, when you grow up?” Crowley asks as Svlad hunches over his knees sullenly. “How old were you when you went in?” 

“Elevenish. Maybe tenish. I dunno. I don’t remember when my birthday is.” 

Crowley’s got an odd look on his face. Svlad can’t tell if it’s because it’s an expression that’s odd or one he’s not used to seeing on his face. He’s not capable of those faculties right now. “What, you were a _kid?_” 

“There were a few kids. I dunno what happened to them. We all-“ Svlad punches the air a little like he’s punching through something. “Busted out when I was, I dunno, sixteenish? Seventeenish? All my ages are ishes.”

Crowley’s still looking at him with that expression. “_Kids?_ Plural?” 

Svlad looks back at the road. “I don’t wanna do it,” he says quietly. “I don’t wanna play anymore.” 

“So stop playing.” 

“I _can’t._ I’ve _tried._ The rules are, are fuckin, I don’t know, immutable. I can’t change how they work. I have to do what they say.” 

“So do it your own way.” 

Svlad blinks, looking over at Crowley, who isn’t looking at him but instead looking at the sky. “What?” 

“Look, human, you think I’m doing this the way it’s supposed to be done? You think the angel is? He’s not supposed to be owning a bookshop or, or eating sushi, or going to see concerts at Royal Albert. And I’m not supposed to drive a car or own plants or have a quite frankly _impeccable_ record collection. Our orders are to cause good and evil, y’know, respectively. Those are the rules. But it doesn’t mean we don’t do it our own way. And that’s all you’ve gotta do. Do it in a way that makes it bearable.” 

Svlad stares at him. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Crowley jerks his head behind him. “Get a new apartment, too, if you die from breathing in the mold that’s in there Aziraphale’s going to pester me to get him a new one of you.” 

“How do I make it bearable?” 

“What, do I look like an answer man?” 

“No. You look like an aspiring stage magician. Since when can you drive?” 

“Since they invented Bentleys. And I can do _actual_ magic, so enough of that _stage magic_ bullshit, thank you, it’s _embarrassing._” 

Svlad pulls his jacket a little tighter. “Make it bearable,” he mutters. “Okay. Yeah. Yeah, I’ll figure it out.” 

“Good.” Crowley stands up. “And go back to work tomorrow. I’m tired of hearing Aziraphale fretting about if you’re all right and ever coming back.” 

“You can tell him whatever you want out of this.” Svlad feels weird. Still tired and a little sad but also something approaching... hopeful. Like maybe there’s a way to navigate this life that doesn’t feel like walking in a pitch black tunnel until that tunnel finds a way to kill him. “I don’t want to... go over it again. Once is enough.” 

Crowley nods. 

“Um. Will you find a way to blast me off the face of the earth if I thank you?” 

“I wouldn’t need to _find a way_, I’m more than capable, and yes, I would.” 

“Okay. I won’t thank you, then.” 

“Good. I wouldn’t have enjoyed it.” Crowley nods again, towards the apartment. “Go. Sleep. I’ll find you if you oversleep tomorrow and I have to hear about it and you won’t like it.” 

Svlad totters to his feet and gives him a thumbs up. Crowley turns away and heads for what looks like a car shaped blur under a broken streetlight. Svlad turns around and heads to his apartment. 

_ Bearable._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -“do I preach to YOU while YOU’RE lying stoned in the gutter? NO” is probably my all time favorite Futurama line and I couldn’t resist having it here
> 
> -Crowley did originally reappear and disappear going to look at Svlad’s window but I ultimately decided against it
> 
> -if Kill Bill sirens go off for Aziraphale and bookstore chains then you damn well better believe they go off for Crowley and bad shit with kids as well
> 
> -I don’t even know if Crowley regularly listens to his records, I think he might just like having them
> 
> -“you look like an aspiring stage magician” is one of my favorite lines from Svlad to Crowley I’ve written in this fic


	8. eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where groundwork is further established, and discussions about mysteries are had.

Aziraphale looks relieved when Svlad walks in the door at 12:22, grateful for the later start time today so he won’t have to deal with too much of a hangover. 

“Oh. Good. You’re back.” 

“Yes. Um.” Svlad rubs his arm awkwardly. “Sorry for the... unannounced sabbatical.” His shoulders are tight, waiting for the inevitable questions that he doesn’t really want to answer. 

“Quite all right. Just... glad to see you.” Aziraphale looks around. “I don’t have anything for you to do, I’m afraid, everything’s very tidy, so would you just... like to read?” 

He feels his back loosen a little. “Um. Sure. Reading is... good.” 

“Is there anything you’d like?” 

Svlad pulls his jacket a little tighter. “I. I’m not.” He feels a little thrown off balance. Even though he’d told Crowley he could tell Aziraphale what he wanted, he’d still expected something of an interrogation. It’s still what he’s used to, even if it’s been years since he’d been back at Blackwing. It’s a good but also oddly fraying experience. He takes a deep breath. “What would you recommend?” 

Aziraphale tilts his head, an expression on his face that looks something like compassion, Svlad thinks. “Did you like the Holmeses?” 

“Um. Yes, I did. I like mysteries and I liked... his kindness. In helping.” It was the thing that had struck him while reading. Holmes helped, but there was a heart inside him when it came to his clients. Svlad’s unused to the concept that the two are compatible. 

“Ah, then Christie would be good for you. Marple, I think.” He leans in conspiratorially. “To be frank, I never much liked Poirot. But you mustn’t tell anyone.” 

Svlad doesn’t know what that means. “Okay.” 

He walks up to a shelf, scanning. “Marple can be a little harsh, in her way, but more so in the earlier works. This should be far enough along.” He hands Svlad a nice little green book, _A Murder is Announced_ in gold lettering on the cover. “Feel free to use the armchair in the back.” 

Svlad swallows. “Okay,” he whispers. “Sounds good.” 

“Yes. Well.” Aziraphale clears his throat. “Glad to have you back.” 

“Do they all catch murderers?” Svlad asks. He’s lounging in the armchair which is almost certainly supernaturally comfortable (he’s not sure supernatural is the right word, but close enough), legs hanging over the armrest. 

“Well, some of them. Sometimes they catch smugglers or jewel thieves.” 

“Ooh.” Jewel thieves sound... fun. Like an interesting, sexy sort of case. “Did you ever meet any jewel thieves?” 

“That’s more Crowley’s department.” 

“And they just... follow clues?” 

Aziraphale looks up from the paperwork he’s doing at his desk, blinking. “...the jewel thieves?” 

“No, detectives.” 

“Oh. Yes, I believe that’s how it goes. I’m not extremely skilled at detective work unless it’s tracking down a book.” 

“And it’s physical clues?” 

“I think so.” 

Svlad bobs his foot up and down while he thinks. “Why?” 

Aziraphale puts his pen down. “Well, that’s how you find things.” 

“But why don’t they just intuit it from the universe? I mean, it’s called intuition for a reason, isn’t it? So why don’t they follow the eddies in the universe? Wouldn’t it be simpler?” 

“I...” Aziraphale looks at a loss for words. “I don’t think they can feel them.” 

“Oh.” Svlad looks back at the book. “But it would be faster that way. You could help people quicker.” 

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.” 

He taps the cover thoughtfully. “Quicker,” he mumbles. “You could help people quicker.” He looks up at Aziraphale. “Do you have a lot of mystery novels?” 

“Of course. Only the good ones, I’m afraid, I didn’t like them much until Crowley dragged me to a cinematographic picture based on a Hammett book and then I found I really liked certain ones.” 

Svlad’s momentarily distracted. “A what?” 

“A what d’you call em.” He holds up his hand and mimics something flashing. “Celluloid show. Moving picture.” 

Svlad realizes. “_Oh_, movies. I don’t see them much.” Probably not since he was a kid. Movies cost money. And require the energy to go places other than work.

“No, neither do I, they’re really more Crowley’s affair. He goes to see quite a few, mostly loud and flashy shows like that one with Watkin who nearly gets crushed and burnt and whatever else, what d’you call it-“ he gestures vaguely. “_Star Wars_. He’d just been rather keen on taking me to that one, though, and I owed him a favor getting the Toll House cookie going in Massachusetts, so I went along for it. One of the rare good talkies, truly, it all went downhill with sound, in my academic sort of opinion.” 

There’s a lot there for Svlad to process, but he remembers what his goal was earlier. “Can I read them?” 

Aziraphale looks confused. “You don’t _read_ the cinema, dear boy.” 

“No, the mystery novels. I want to read all of them.” 

“Oh. Yes, of course. Won’t be a problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Marple was my first Christie detective and she’s still my favorite
> 
> -like I wasn’t gonna make it so Dirk got his thing about Watkin from Aziraphale
> 
> -the Hammett movie that Aziraphale talks about here is The Thin Man, a comedy from the 1930s where a wealthy socialite married to a former detective of a lower class solve a mystery. For one thing, it is one of my all time favorite movies, but for another, I think a movie about two people in two different social classes being married and working together has a certain appeal to Crowley, and in the end he couldn’t resist
> 
> -as for what I couldn’t resist, it would be making Crowley the one who covered the invention of the chocolate chip cookie for Aziraphale


	9. nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where life plans are contemplated and made.

Svlad’s not normally the sort to take notes. He believes they encumber the general experiencing process. However, for once, he is breaking his own rule and putting the effort in. 

So far, as he reads the mystery books, he has several notes scrawled on a yellow pad of paper he’d bought especially for the occasion. 

_ -THEY ALL FOLLOW CLUES_

_-WEB OF UNIVERSE WOULD BE FASTER_

_-LEGALITY IS RELATIVE WHEN YOU’RE DETECTIVING_

_-THEY DO HELP PEOPLE EVEN THOUGH LEGALITY IS RELATIVE_

_-YOU HAVE TO DRESS SHARP IF YOU WANT TO BE A DETECTIVE_

“What’re you squinting at?” Crowley asks. Svlad looks up from the armchair as Crowley fidgets with a Furby on the couch, on minding the store duty again. 

“Thinking about life decisions. What are you doing with that?” 

“Thought I’d leave them around to freak people out.” Crowley puts the Furby down on Crowley’s little table. Its eyes open, flat white, and it thunders _ALL HAIL SATAN, OUR OVERLORD AND MASTER._ Svlad jumps and Crowley cackles. 

“You have a really weird way of flirting with Aziraphale.” 

“Stop that or we’re not going to lunch.” 

Svlad blinks, looking up properly from his list. “...we’re going to lunch?” 

“_Yes_, or your stomach’s going to make that noise again. Come on. Let’s go.” 

“I don’t understand rich people food,” Svlad tells Crowley. “What’s a foie gras?” 

“Duck liver. Sometimes goose.” 

Svlad pulls a face. “I’ll try the prawns.” 

“S’good here. I’ve been coming since 1918.” 

“Yes.” Svlad looks around. The stained glass windows look vintage and the chairs in the well lit restaurant are nice but a little stiff in the way old nice ones tend to be. “It seems old. But in a nice way. Why does cheese go on the dessert menu? Isn’t cheese just cheese?” 

“I dunno. People like cheese for dessert, I s’pose.” 

“And not the rest of the time?” 

Crowley puts his menu down and gives Svlad a stern look. “I did not have any input in menu design,“ he says icily. 

Svlad shrugs, looking back down at the menu. “I don’t know what you’re responsible for or who came up with such things.” 

“Maybe Famine, potentially Aziraphale.” 

“Aziraphale seems smart enough to know that cheese belongs on a cheese menu and dessert belongs on a dessert menu.” 

“You’d think so. Also there’s no such thing as a cheese menu.” 

“There should be.” 

“...I’ll give you that one.” Crowley looks over at him as he peruses the menu. “So you’re good?” 

Svlad looks up. “What?” 

“Well, you know, you’re not drunk in the gutter.” 

“Not... the last time I looked.” 

“So. Progress.” 

He stares at Crowley, who doesn’t fidget, but manages to give off fidget energy nonetheless. “Are you... checking up on me?” 

Crowley sniffs. “_No_. I’m taking you out to lunch so you won’t moan and complain while we’re at the bookstore, I don’t want to hear it. I have my own business, human.” 

“You _are_. You’re checking up on me.” 

He makes that sniff again, glowering. “Pick an appetizer. The waiter’ll be along soon and I don’t want to sit here on my thumbs without an answer.” 

“Couldn’t you make him wait longer?” 

Crowley’s face gets distinctly more menacing. “_Pick. An. Appetizer._” 

Svlad keeps grinning at him. “The prawns will be good. And I am also good, now. I have a plan.” 

“I don’t care about you or your plan and prawns will be fine.” 

Svlad doesn’t believe him. It’s wonderful. 

“Did you know any detectives?” 

Crowley shrugs. He’s already inhaled his creme brûlée. He eats faster than anyone Svlad’s ever met. “Mostly not very good ones. Some who thought they were cleverer than they actually were. Some who were actually clever, but few and far between.” 

Svlad pokes at his cream puff with his fork. “What were they like? I mean, how did they do it?” 

“I dunno. They detectived stuff, I s’pose.” 

“But what did they have in common?” 

“They were good at detectiving.” Crowley sighs. “I don’t know, human, my job’s more to poke at criminals and go ‘hey, wouldn’t you like a spot of criminaling before bed’, I have less to do with catching them.” 

“Oh.” He’s a little disappointed. Crowley sighs again. 

“Style.” 

“What?” 

“Look, the good ones, it didn’t matter how they dressed, but the ones I _liked_, the ones who made an _impression_, they had something about their look that stood out, some signature thing. So develop style. Which you should do anyway, just by looking at you.” 

Svlad frowns. “I have style.” 

“You look _exactly_ like the sort I would’ve found in a gutter.” 

“I don’t have _money._ Style will come after.” 

Crowley snorts. “You and I are very different people.” 

“I’m not so sure that we are, really.” Crowley’s eyes narrow but Svlad speaks before he gets the chance to. “Thank you for the advice, though.” 

Crowley harrumphs. “Finish your dessert so we can go.” 

“What do _you_ think of detectives?” Svlad asks while he’s busy sorting a box of books, trying to resist the urge to fidget with a copy of Anderson fairy tales from 1935. 

“Well, it depends on the intention of the individual, naturally, same as with most professions.” Aziraphale’s shelving calmly. Svlad wonders if he shelves with magic when he isn’t around, or if he likes doing it by hand. “Some detectives are muckrakers, you know, and I haven’t any patience for that. But detectives who genuinely want to help, well, that’s all right, then.” 

He drums his fingers on the book cover, doing his best to do it lightly. “What if… it was someone who… sort of got pulled along into things without really meaning or wanting to, but they wanted to take advantage of it to do… good things? Like, they just, they just wanted to make that weirdness, that part of their life bearable, so they decided to just… reformat the way they live their life, a little bit?” 

Aziraphale looks up from his shelving now, hands pausing over the row as he stares at Svlad. He tries to keep his breathing even and not show how much this means to him, how much he needs affirmation on this, resisting the urge to wipe his palms on his jeans. Changing the course of your life is frightening, and Aziraphale is one of two of the most important people in his life. It just… matters to him. 

“Well,” Aziraphale says thoughtfully. “I think that would fall into the latter category, don’t you? And I think that this… someone would be rather good at it, given they’ve a good heart and they’re earnest. I think it would be just fine.” 

Svlad swallows, hand tightening on the book. “Right,” he manages, voice creaking a little. “Right. Yeah. Okay. Right.” 

Aziraphale glances down at the book. “Do try not to squeeze it _too_ hard, Svlad.” 

He looks down and loosens his grip. “Yes. Sorry.” 

“Quite all right.” 

“Thanks,” he adds, in a barely there whisper. He looks back up in time to see Aziraphale smiling gently at him. 

“Quite all right,” he repeats. “After you’ve done with that box, I’ll show you how to properly organize according to the Dewey Decimal System.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -for some reason I really like the idea of Crowley with a demented Furby, I don’t know why
> 
> -criminaling is a word because I say so
> 
> -there will be more angst next round


	10. ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where a figure from the past reappears, much to everyone's disappointment.

Crowley and Aziraphale are absorbed in what appears to be an intense game of Scrabble. Svlad would have pictured that they would have picked chess or something, but instead they’re hunched over the little coffee table in the back room, scrutinizing their letters like life and death is involved. He’s looked up from his first edition of _A Pocketful of Rye_ every so often and he’s pretty sure they’ve been in the same position for fifteen minutes. 

Finally, Crowley lays a word down. 

“_Akkannu_,” he says. “Fifteen points.” 

Aziraphale looks up and gives him that scrunchy narrowed eye look that he gets particularly around Crowley. 

“It’s Assyrian, remember? Means wild ass.” 

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s got that sour, sniffy tone. “You would know.” 

“_Oi_, uncalled for.” 

“I think it’s _perfectly_ called for.” 

“_You’re_ just sore that I’ve thought of a fifteen point-“ Crowley’s letters suddenly shift a little, scattering just slightly across the line so they don’t spell the word anymore. “Okay, now _that_, _that_ was _definitely_ uncalled for, for an angel, you’re _such_ a sore-“ 

The bell rings over the door in the main front of the store. 

“Svlad,” Aziraphale says, neatly putting Crowley’s word back the way it was before but with his fingers this time. “Be a dear and go and discourage them from purchasing anything, would you? Let me know if you require assistance.” 

“Don’t worry.” Svlad closes the book, but not before putting one of the fabric bookmarks that have been sanctioned by Aziraphale to be used as such in his place. “I can be _very_ annoying.” 

“Look at him,” Crowley says, without doing the thing he’s instructing Aziraphale to do. “He’s being annoying right now.” 

“He’s not the one who’s played a fifteen point word.” 

Svlad stands and heads to the front, ignoring their bickering. 

“Hello!” he calls cheerily on his way. “I’m afraid we’re closing in approximately four minutes and thirty seven seconds, and we’ve closed all shelves numbered by the Decimal System from 0-149 and then 237-900, so-“ 

Svlad stops dead when he sees who it actually is lurking around the door to the bookstore, idly looking over at one of Aziraphale’s stacks, hands dangling loosely by his sides against the pants of his black suit to try and appear as non threatening as possible. He has the sudden urge to tell him not to touch it, but then again, his tongue has stopped working, so it doesn’t really matter. 

_He hasn’t changed_ is the only dazed thought that makes it through Svlad’s suddenly panic filled mind. His mustache might be a little grayer but that’s all. It’s still the same Riggins, standing there and watching him with that calculating gaze like he always did, from childhood to now. 

“Svlad,” he says calmly. 

Svlad opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. 

“It’s been a while,” he continues like he hasn’t noticed. 

He nods, mouth dry. He doesn’t know what to do. He can’t even move. 

“I was pleased to hear you’d come back to England. It’s good for you to come back for a little while.” 

The first thing that strikes him is _for a little while_, which clearly implies that he’s meant to come back, at some point. It’s the other implication by the sentence, though, which forces its way to the front. He wets his lips. 

“You’ve been watching me?” he whispers. 

Riggins gives him That Look, one of his least favorites. It’s the kindly disappointed one, the one that tells him he really should have known better, the one that Svlad got whenever he got one of their questions wrong. 

“Now, Svlad,” he says, condescension cloaked in kindness. “You didn’t really think we were going to just be able to let you go off completely on your own, did you?” 

Svlad swallows. He wants to throw up. Aziraphale probably wouldn’t appreciate it. He has nice floors. 

“Besides.” Riggins shrugs too carelessly for it to be honest. “You dropped off our radar over the past few months. I was concerned about you.” 

“No, you weren't.” The words manage to make their way past his throat. 

Riggins’s expression turns insipidly benevolent. 

“I’m _always_ concerned about you, Svlad,” he says, and Svlad can feel his spine stiffen. 

“You’re-“ god, it feels like he’s choking on his words, he _hates_ this, _hates_ how Riggins does this to him. “Lying. You’re always lying.” 

“I always tell the truth, Svlad. I just take the long way around because you’re never ready to hear it.” 

His hands are shaking. He can’t make them stop, no matter how hard he tries. 

“This is an odd place you’ve found.” Riggins looks around the shop. "Doesn’t show up on any of our maps. We may have to look into that.” 

The panic flares even more intensely. He can’t do that. Svlad can’t pull Aziraphale and Crowley into this. “You won’t.” 

“It’s an interesting idea.” Riggins turns his attention back to Svlad. Visibly, anyhow. He thinks it probably never left. “On the topic of interesting ideas, I was thinking perhaps it was time you came home.” 

His stomach lurches even more sharply than before. He can’t say anything again, just shakes his head. 

“You didn’t think you were going to be able to stay forever, Svlad. Surely you must know that.” 

He hates how often Riggins says his name. He hates how Riggins makes it sound like his. He hates that there’s a very real chance he’s about to be dragged out of here. 

“It’s not home,” he manages. 

“You’ve never had any other. You know that, too.” 

Svlad opens his mouth. He doesn’t think he can say anything. He doesn’t know what to do. 

There’s two sharp sets of footsteps behind him. Svlad can’t look, even as he sees Aziraphale and Crowley next to him out of the corner of his eye. He’s terrified to take his eyes off Riggins. 

“I’m afraid we’re closing.” Aziraphale’s tone is polite, but there’s something freezing in his voice below the surface. 

“That’s all right,” Riggins says calmly. “We were just leaving.” 

Svlad quickly looks from Aziraphale to Crowley, shaking his head. 

“Svlad, do you _want_ to go with him?” Aziraphale asks, even though he clearly knows the answer. 

He shakes his head even harder. 

“Seems to me it’s just you that’s leaving, then,” Crowley observes. His hands are in his pockets and he’s lounging where he stands, but it feels different from the usual lounging. He feels more like a spring than anything else. He’s not casual. He’s just resting. 

“I assure you,” Riggins answers. “That Svlad is just confused.” 

“Confus_ing_,” Crowley shoots back. “Not so sure he’s confused, though.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees. “The majority of the time, he’s got his head screwed on pretty well.” 

Riggins sizes up Aziraphale and Crowley. Svlad can’t even feel relieved that the scrutiny is, briefly, off of him. 

“Is one of you Mr. Fell?” Riggins asks. 

Crowley points at Aziraphale at the same time Aziraphale points at himself. 

“And you are Svlad’s employer?” 

“I’m Svlad’s friend,” Aziraphale corrects firmly, and Svlad _does_ manage to feel something at that, something warm in his chest that flickers like a lit match. 

“I’m more of a casual acquaintance than anything,” Crowley adds. “But he does enough work round here that means I don’t have to hear _him_-“ he jerks a thumb at Aziraphale. “Whinging about doing it. So I’ve got a vested interest in keeping him around as well.” 

Riggins evaluates the two of them for another minute before focusing his attention on Svlad. He feels like he shrinks a little bit. Riggins has that look on his face, the one that says he’s holding onto a bomb and he’s ready to drop it so he can claim after he only did what was best. 

“I did hear about that business at Cambridge, you know,” he tells him. “It was… disappointing. I expected better from you. Certainly the sort of thing that might hamper employment.” 

It’s not just Svlad's hands shaking anymore. It’s his whole body, gripped by the absolute terror that Aziraphale and Crowley, if they don’t let Riggins drag him away, will think less of him. It’s been so long since he wanted anyone not to think less of him, and now he’s aware of how important this is at the _worst_ possible moment. 

“All right, look, human.” Crowley’s taken a couple steps and Svlad can see him more clearly now, can see the tight anger on his face only barely masked. “You clearly think you’re very good at playing the threats game. But I should let you know-“ he takes his glasses off to wipe them on his shirt. It’s the first time he’s ever seen Crowley’s eyes, and he’s vaguely surprised to see that they’re yellow and slitted like a snake’s eyes. It doesn’t have the impact for him that it normally might, but Riggins’s own mask briefly slips and he looks momentarily startled. “That I know how to play it, too, and I can play it _better_, so-“ 

Riggins disappears. 

That’s what it looks like, anyway. Svlad blinks, staring at where he was and immediately looking to Crowley who, to his vague surprise, looks just as startled as Svlad feels. 

“Did you-“ 

There’s a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. It must be in Crowley’s field of vision too because they both look over at the spot Riggins disappeared (or so he’d thought) to see a large newt blinking at them. 

“Did you-“ Svlad starts again. 

“I didn’t _think_ I did.” Crowley peers at him. “I was _definitely _planning on doing a lot more unpleasant than that to him." 

“Well, it wasn’t me-“ 

There’s an awkward but loud cough behind them and they both turn to see Aziraphale standing there, looking a little abashed (but not nearly as much as one might think) and blushing slightly. 

“_You?_” Crowley asks, looking delighted and proud and maybe a little awestruck. 

Aziraphale shuffles. “He was _upsetting_,” he insists. Svlad’s not sure if he’s talking about upsetting him, Aziraphale, or if Riggins is just upsetting in general. It’s all true, no doubt.

Crowley laughs, clearly ecstatic. 

“_Stop_ that.” Aziraphale walks over to Riggins and picks him up. Crowley approaches him. 

“What’re we gonna do with him?” he asks. “We could-“ he grinds his foot into the floor and makes a squishing noise. 

“We’ll attract attention. It could get ugly with, you know-“ 

“Head Office,” they say at the same time. 

“Yes. It’ll get one of us in significant trouble and the other a commendation and I’m not sure which is which. Might get messy.” Aziraphale raises the Riggins newt in front of his face and speaks clearly. “Now listen. Svlad’s with us, and you’re not going to take him here, or at his apartment, or at all. You’re not going to come back to this bookstore, and you’re not going to remember where it is.” 

“You’re not going to be able to remember being turned into a newt, either,” Crowley adds. “Or any of that business about Head Office, you’re just going to remember the gist of what Aziraphale’s telling you and then you’re going to do it, you absolute wanker.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t even reprimand him for it. “Right. You’re just going to fly back across the ocean and you’re going to let Svlad be for as long as he’s with us. I’m going to let you outside, and you’re going to scuttle about for a minute or so and then you’ll be back to normal. You won’t be trod on, but only because it’ll get us in trouble and if we get in trouble it might get Svlad get in trouble. Don’t forget, now.” 

Aziraphale briskly walks to the door, kneels down, lets Riggins out with a vaguely unceremonious air, and shuts the door firmly. 

Riggins no longer being in the building makes Svlad sag like he’s a puppet whose strings have been cut. In a way he is, he supposes. Aziraphale and Crowley turn back to look at him and they stare at each other in silence for a moment. 

Svlad raises a finger. “Bathroom,” he says hoarsely. 

“Right. Um.” Aziraphale gestures vaguely. 

“Go for it,” Crowley supplies. 

Svlad makes a beeline for the bathroom, which he’s been fairly certain didn’t exist until he came to work here, and promptly throws up. 

He takes a moment to sit by the toilet, trying to gather himself a little. He doesn’t think it’s working. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling. Eventually, he manages to pick himself up and stumble into the back room. Aziraphale and Crowley are huddled together whispering. Both look at Svlad when he enters and staggers over to the chair. He sits heavily, looking down at his hands. They’re still shaking. 

“It didn’t warn me,” he whispers. “Universe never kicks in for anything useful.” 

They start shaking even worse. He bends over a little and grips at his hair, eyes squeezed shut. His chest feels tight. He can feel his breath coming shallowly. 

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Oh, of _course_ he’s not all right.” There’s footsteps. “Hey. Look up.” 

Svlad obeys. Crowley’s crouched in front of him, staring intently into his face. 

“I,” Svlad chokes. “I’m.” 

“Yeah, I know. That was the prick you talked about before, isn’t it?” 

He nods. 

“Yeah. Thought so. He’s having a panic attack, angel.” Crowley speaks to Aziraphale without turning his head, still looking at Svlad. “All right, count to ten. Out loud. Go on.” 

“I-“ 

“Don’t fight with me, human, I’m not interested.” 

Svlad swallows. The numbers come out shaky. 

“Good. Do it again. And breathe in between the numbers, you lot need to do that.” 

He does. They come out less shaky this time. Crowley just keeps repeating _again_ when he’s finished until Svlad’s managed to get the tightness in his chest under control and his breath is ragged but not panicked. He swallows. 

“Thanks,” he rasps. 

Crowley pulls a face. “Don’t do that.” He stands and sprawls on the couch across from the chair, pulling his sunglasses back on. Aziraphale sits down next to him, looking concerned. 

“Dear boy, why didn’t you _call_ for us?” 

Svlad rubs his arm, leaning back into the chair. His hands are shaking less. “M’not used to having people on my side,” he mumbles. “Didn’t occur to me.”

“We would’ve been sooner, but, well, Crowley _insisted_ on playing this Sumerian word and we were too absorbed in the game to notice at first-“ Aziraphale shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m sorry we weren’t quicker on the design.” 

“_Draw_, Aziraphale,” Crowley corrects. “It’s quicker on the _draw._” 

“S’all right. I appreciate you showing up when you did. Otherwise I’d have been dragged with him, probably.” 

Aziraphale sniffs. “No. You certainly wouldn’t have. Not in _my_ shop.” 

Svlad closes his eyes. “I didn’t think he’d come here,” he mutters. “I didn’t think he’d be watching me still.” His fist curls into a fist on his knee. “_Stupid_ Svlad.” 

“He won’t be watching you anymore.” Crowley sounds pretty final. “Not unless he wants to be a bit smaller and newtier again.” 

“Yes. Agreed.” 

He rubs at his face. “I wonder what he wanted me for.” 

“Does it matter?” There’s nothing condescending or sharp in Aziraphale’s tone, instead gentle. 

“No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” Svlad feels like he’s still all small. Like he’s shrunk several sizes. “I wish I could’ve talked back to him. I wish I could’ve stood up to him.” 

“You didn’t have to.” 

“It feels like I did.” 

“What happened at Cambridge?” Crowley asks. Svlad flinches. 

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale hisses. 

“What? Either we ask him now or he stews in it and I want to know now.” 

Svlad runs a hand through his hair. “When I was there, I started getting… panicky,” he admits. “About…my grades and my scholarship, and the universe was pulling at me more and more to leave but I didn’t _want_ to leave, I wanted to stay and I wanted to be my own person and not the universe’s, and I thought, you know, if I lost my scholarship I’d need money and I didn’t have a lot so I was desperate and trying to come up with contingency plans and I just… I made a bunch of these papers, all right, that were supposed to have the answers to the next final, and I sold them off to a bunch of students, because I thought the money would help, only I thought they were fake answers but they _weren’t,_ I’d accidentally gotten them all right, and the school found out and I got expelled.” 

He can’t look at either of them. They’re going to think less of him. Maybe Aziraphale will even fire him. He hates this situation and he hates Riggings for putting him in it and he hates himself. 

“Well,” Aziraphale says after a beat. “You did do something perhaps… less than right, morally speaking. But, you know, you’ve _learned_ from it and you know it wasn’t entirely right, and that’s led you to make yourself more _firmly_ on the side of right, so really, it’s all turned out well, in the end.” 

“You’ve done my job for me,” Crowley adds. “I mean, a bunch of students all cheating on a paper, that’s right up my alley. Which normally I might resent but, y’know, I didn’t have to set foot at Cambridge, so.” 

Svlad starts sniffling. He can’t help it. It’s the sudden surge of relief that he’s not about to be turned out, that he’s going to get to stay here and keep working and that Riggins doesn’t get to come for him. He starts rubbing at his eyes. 

“Oh, hell.” Crowley sounds panicked. “Angel, make that stop.” 

“Oh, Svlad.” Aziraphale kneels in front of him, producing a handkerchief that Svlad’s pretty sure he materialized out of thin air. “It’s all right, now, don’t cry, there’s a good lad. He’s not going to come back, and I’m not going to fire you. Why don’t we go for a meal, hm? We can all go out for food. Your choice. Anywhere you like.” 

He wipes at his eyes with the handkerchief. “Sorry.” 

“It’s just fine. Where would you like to eat?" 

“Nice place a ten minute walk away just had an opening,” Crowley cuts in. “Got an excellent risotto.” 

Svlad thinks it over. “There’s one place,” he manages, trying to not sound quite so teary. “I go there for dinner sometimes after work.” 

“Well, we’ll go there.” 

Aziraphale is clearly trying to figure out how to hold the slice. 

“Oh, come on, angel,” Crowley says, sounding torn between being cross and amused. “It’s not _that_ greasy.” 

“I _know_, it’s just greasy enough that, you know, I don’t want to get any on my coat.” 

Svlad hands over a napkin. The three of them are standing outside the pizzeria he likes to go with their slices. Crowley’s got one with pineapple. Aziraphale’s got a plain one. Svlad has his usual with sausage and ricotta. He’s started eating here since he started having a little money to spare, and it’s probably his favorite spot in the area. 

“Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever had pizza that wasn’t from Italy,” Aziraphale muses. 

“It’s really good cold,” Svlad says, swallowing his bite. “You put it in your fridge and you eat it for breakfast and it’s great.” 

“Or you can just make it cold, if you’re us,” Crowley adds. 

Aziraphale gives Crowley a stern look. “We have no way to cool things that isn’t an icebox.” 

“Oh, come on, are we _still_ doing this? You just turned that man into a newt, so-“ 

“He _didn’t_ turn into a newt,” Aziraphale says irritably. “We all experienced a… large mass delusion.” 

“So is there a gas leak in your store, then?” Svlad asks. “Wouldn’t that be bad for the books and wouldn’t you be more concerned?” 

“Yeah, wouldn’t you be worried about the bookshop blowing up?” 

“_No._ It’s a… non lethal gas leak.” 

“I don’t think those-“ 

“Svlad,” Aziraphale cuts through Crowley. “Would you pass me another napkin, please?” 

He hands him another one. “Do you like it?” 

“Yes, it’s… quite good. I like it very much. It was a good suggestion.” 

Crowley clearly doesn’t believe he likes it as he slouches against the wall of the pizzeria, taking a bite of his own, but he doesn’t say anything to him about it. “Can’t believe you’re still holding onto that jacket.” 

Svlad sniffs, straightening the brown suede jacket, even more beat up now than when he first came to work at the shop. “S’the only jacket I’ve got and I’m not enough of a heathen to go about _not_ wearing a jacket.” 

“It’s not your color, human.” 

“Svlad looks fine,” Aziraphale says severely. “Eat your pizza.” 

Crowley and Aziraphale start bickering pretty quickly. Svlad watches them. 

He gets to keep doing this. Gets to keep eating and working and being with people who like him, who want the best for him (even if one of them won’t admit it), who won’t ever try to lock him up and use him for their own purposes. 

He takes another bite with a smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -writing Riggins is always very satisfying because he’s such an asshole
> 
> -Aziraphale turned Riggins into a newt but he got better
> 
> -everyone who passes by the three of them eating pizza is running on the assumption that two gay uncles have taken their scruffy nephew out for lunch


	11. eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where a change is contemplated and implemented.

Svlad’s quieter over the next few days. 

For one thing, the central figure of the trauma of one’s past reappearing is bound to make someone clamp down a bit, so on that level, it makes sense. But really, it’s not as much that, although that’s central to the whole business. Mostly, he’s quieter because he's been thinking a whole lot more about himself in relation to his past than the generally troubling incident that prompted the thinking. Cambridge did not go over as poorly as he thought it might, which is good, and might help him forgive himself a little bit on it, at some point. He wasn’t dragged back to Blackwing, which makes it a little easier to distance himself from (also good). There are many points in his favor here. 

What he needs, Svlad thinks, is to be a whole new person. Or rather, a person who is _mostly_ new, and new in the ways he would like. He’s going to be a detective, that much is certainly settled. He’s not precisely sure _how_ he’s going to be a detective, he doesn’t know how one gets started in such a thing (he’s heard you need a license but this seems ridiculous to him- Marple didn’t have a license and she did just fine, so he doesn’t see why _he_ should need one), but he’s going to do it. So that’s one thing down that he’ll work towards figuring out, one whole new aspect for him. No longer shiftless and tired but a person who’s… detectivey, he supposes, and brighter. 

The thing Svlad _really_ keeps returning to, currently, is how frequently Riggins said his name, and how little he liked that. He’s read in one of the books in the shop somewhere that names have power, and while he’s fairly certain it’s not in the literal sense in the real world, he still knows that he doesn’t like that. Svlad Cjelli, he’s realized, is a name that still distinctly belongs to Blackwing. It’s the name that was used all the way through his time there, it’s the name that was used all the way through Cambridge, and it’s a name that’s keeping him too tied to the ocean floor when he’d rather like to be swimming instead. 

So the _real_ thing that needs to be done is to go name shopping. 

“Do you two know a lot of names?” he asks Aziraphale and Crowley after four days of solidly mulling things over. 

Crowley looks up from the Rubik’s Cube he’s fiddling with. It’s not a Rubik’s Cube like Svlad’s used to- the colors keep blinking out and shifting to different squares rapid-fire, which probably makes it harder. He’s reasonably confident that if he asked Aziraphale how he did it, he’d get a flustered hasty answer about “the technology these days, dear boy”. “All of them.” 

“_Some_ of them,” Aziraphale amends. “Why?” 

“Well, I’ve been thinking, a bit, and I think… I’d like a new name. This one… doesn’t fit, anymore. It’s someone else’s name.” 

Aziraphale looks startled but thoughtful. Crowley is looking at Svlad like he knows exactly what he’s thinking, and maybe even like he understands, lowering the Cube into his lap for a second. 

“Well,” Aziraphale answers contemplatively. “We _do_ know many names, and I’ve certainly read a lot, so we could help you, if you-“ 

“Have part of your name be a weapon,” Crowley says, lifting the Cube back up and fiddling with it. “Something like Chainsaw.” 

“_No,_” Aziraphale and Svlad say at the same time. 

“How about Rocket Launcher?” 

“_NO_,” they say again, even louder this time. 

“Aren’t you the one always talking about subtlety and style?” Svlad asks. 

“There’s nothing subtle about Crowley,” Aziraphale says before Crowley can say anything. “He just pretends.” 

“That is true.” 

Crowley gives them both sour looks. “_I_ have flair and style and panache all the while maintaining a certain subtlety. _The human_ does not particularly scream inconspicuous." 

“The subtlety’s probably why you own so many red scarves.” 

Crowley’s sour look intensifies particularly at Svlad. “Aziraphale’s not the only one who can turn people into things, you know.” 

“_Gas induced hallucination_,” Azziraphale stresses. “And _Rocket Launcher_ is not a suitable name.” 

“Maybe for a cat or a dog, though.” 

Crowley points at Svlad triumphantly. “Which makes it a suitable name for _something_.” 

“But not for _Svlad_.” He turns to him. “Do you _want_ to be called Rocket Launcher?” 

“Well, if I’m going to be a detective I think I should have business cards, and if I’m going to have business cards, I want a name that’ll fit on one reasonably well.” 

“First name Rocket, last name Launcher.” 

Aziraphale has apparently decided to start ignoring Crowley. “You know, I’ve always thought pleasant words are nice. Soft and compassion and-“ 

“This isn’t the 1500s, angel,” he interrupts, apparently discontent to be ignored. “You can’t go round with names like Oh-Isn’t-He-Just-Darling Smith or what have you.” 

Aziraphale is undeterred in the ignoring policy. “Well, I can always give you a book of names to read while you’re here, or perhaps a dictionary, some of them have names in the back, you know, and you just… let us know once you’ve made a decision.” 

“That’d be good.” Svlad fidgets with his hands. “How do I know when I’ve found the right one?” 

“You’ll know it when you see it.” Crowley clicks the Rubik’s Cube into place. It glows faintly with all sides completed and Crowley lets out a triumphant _ha!_ before setting it down on the table. “Come on, angel, let’s go get lunch, we’ve got business to discuss.” 

Svlad’s going through the dictionary methodically. He carefully reads each word, stares at it for a moment, and upon not feeling anything, goes to the next. It takes him an hour to get through the As. 

“Could I offer a suggestion?” Aziraphale asks while Svlad is curled up in his chair, squinting at the B section. 

“Mm-hm.” 

“Perhaps going bit by bit isn’t the best way to do it.” 

Svlad looks up from the book. “What?” 

“Well. You, er.” Aziraphale flutters a hand. “Channel the universe or some such business, yes?” 

“Yeah.” 

“So really, if you _want_ to have a new name, shouldn’t you be able to just sort of…” Aziraphale mimes opening a book. “Open the book and find the general place to be looking in.” 

“I… don’t know.” Svlad looks back down at the book. “It usually doesn’t work in my favor like that.” 

“Well, it worked in your favor to get you here, didn’t it?” 

“…yeah. I guess it did.” 

“And really, there’s no harm in _trying_.” Aziraphale gestures down at the book. “It just seems, you know. Inefficient.” The little bell over the door goes off and he sighs. “We’re closing in _three minutes,_ who _does_ that, honestly.” 

“You could talk loudly about your family’s decades long mob connections like you did a few weeks ago.” 

Aziraphale pulls a face. “It attracted a _history writer_ and while I generally find their company enjoyable and occasionally entertaining they kept asking me about if anyone had been ‘whacked’ here and I found it trying." 

“You’ll think of something.” 

“I always do.” Aziraphale walks away and Svlad studies the book thoughtfully. 

He’s got a point, really. He’s stopped trying to make the universe work for him. Rather, he’s been trying to work _around_ it, filling in the bits around the edges. And he thinks that’s gonna be how it _has_ to work, but, well. He might get a one off. Every now and then. 

He closes the dictionary and his eyes. 

“Come on,” he mumbles. “Just one. Just let me find something new.” 

He opens his eyes and the book at the same time. It falls open to the Ds. 

“Okay. So. This could be something. Or nothing.” He shakes his head. “True of anything, though.” 

He starts rapid scanning through the Ds, jumping from word to word. He pauses at one, finger stopping abruptly. 

Crowley was right, he thinks. He just knows. He closes his eyes again, opening the book back up. This time it’s G. He does the same thing until his finger stops again. 

“Well.” Aziraphale comes back, looking smug. “All I had to do was complain to him about the rash I had and-“ he stops on seeing Svlad, who’s gone very still. “Is everything all right?” 

“Yeah,” he says, staring at the pages. “It’s all good.” 

“Did you find it?” 

“I found… something to workshop." 

He is sure. He was sure as soon as he put it together, that humming confidence clicking with him absolutely perfectly. But that doesn’t mean he’s _ready_ yet. It just means he _knows_. 

He spends the weekend saying it in front of the mirror. He introduces himself to his reflection. Says it like he might in casual conversation. Says it over and over and over again, until he feels like it fits him fully, until he thinks he could respond to it easily when called. 

He strides into the bookshop Monday at 9:48 am, hair pulled back into his yellow scrunchie, wearing his nicest black tee shirt, feeling unaccountably nervous. Crowley’s tossing a rubber ball at the wall and catching it while Aziraphale pretends to look over a book but is really nervously watching Crowley and the ball’s proximity to his books. Crowley looks up when he sees him enter, catching the ball neatly and looking at him contemplatively. 

“What is it, then?” he asks. 

He wonders how he knows. He takes a deep breath. 

“Dirk,” he says. “Dirk Gently.” 

Crowley and Aziraphale look at each other. Then back at Dirk. Then at each other again. He feels extremely anxious as the silence stretches. 

“Well, obviously it’s one of mine,” Aziraphale says. “It’s got a kind and pleasant adverb. So it’s a win for me.” 

“It’s a _weapon_,” he counters crossly. “Makes it one of mine. You don’t get that one.” 

“Well, you’re wrong-“ Crowley opens his mouth. Aziraphale turns away from him. “And regardless, I think it suits you. Very… bold. Compelling, even." 

He looks at Crowley, who shrugs. 

“I’m counting it as a win for us,” he says. “So I’ve done my job, which means it can stand.” 

He knows what he means, and he beams. 

“Yes,” Dirk says. “I rather think it works.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now he’s officially Dirk!
> 
> We’re coming up on the end of this fic, folks: this fic mainly serves to set Dirk up to become the Dirk from the show, and that’s getting more in motion now. Not quite over yet, but over soon enough.
> 
> -the idea that Crowley would immediately understand Dirk’s wish to have a new name only hit me right as I started writing this chapter and honestly it’s one of the things I’m proudest of in this fic
> 
> -I like the idea of Crowley harping on things that don’t really need to be harped on just to rile Aziraphale up


	12. twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Dirk is reminded he can do things for himself every now and again, and more of himself starts to take form.

“What do businessmen wear?” Dirk asks as he helps Aziraphale shelve. That’s the thing about working in the bookstore- they never seem to run out of room to shelve books, no matter what. 

Aziraphale blanches. “Goodness gracious, why do you think _I_ would know?” 

“Well, you are a businessmen.” 

“Only _technically_.” Aziraphale slots a book in. “Why don’t you ask Crowley, anyway? He tends to keep up with the current fashion vogues more than I do.” 

“I want to look professional but also stylish. Crowley goes more for just stylish.” 

He nods in acknowledgment of that. “Well. Do you want to look professional or like a businessmen? I think they’re different things, but maybe don’t quote me on that.” 

“Um.” Dirk pushes another book into the shelf. “Well, I’d like to look professional enough to get hired as a detective. But also a bit more like… me.” 

“Many of the detectives I’ve known have been rather seedy fellows, to be perfectly frank with you, but you know, I’ve seen gentlemen walking around who look professional and they tend to wear ties and slacks and, I don’t know-“ Aziraphale gestures vaguely. “Crisp shirts, I suppose.” 

“Oh. All right.” Dirk self consciously runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve also been thinking about, you know. Getting a trim. I’m a bit… shaggy these days, and I think people will probably want someone who looks a little more put together. I haven’t done it in a while because…” Depression. “Money.” Which is true but also depression. 

Aziraphale looks at him contemplatively. “I think you should go to my barber,” he says. “I’ve seen him for years, he’s quite good. I’m sure he could do whatever you wanted.” 

“Well…” Dirk tugs on his hair again. It’s the cost, he thinks. Nothing to do with the feeling of general unworthiness. Just the cost. 

Aziraphale leans in a little conspiratorially. “Would you like to know what _else_ I think?” 

“Sure.” 

“I think it doesn’t hurt to do nice things for yourself every once in a while. Just, y’know. A fun little splurge.” He straightens. “Wisdom of experience and all.” 

He swallows. “I…” He wants to say _I do nice things for myself_ all the time, but really, he hasn’t done much for himself beyond major life decisions in some time. He’d gotten himself an apartment, finally, with a little guidance from both Aziraphale and Crowley, he’ll move in there soon. Does that count? That probably counts as major life decisions. He gets pizza for himself sometimes after work. He’s not sure that’s a big enough thing for it to count. He really does very little for himself, doesn’t he?

“Besides which, perhaps Crowley will stop giving you so much grief over your hair, which really is something you’re doing for all of us.” 

Dirk grins, looking away. “My hair’s not really all that much longer than his.” 

“Yes, but we both must admit, as much of a trial as it is for the both of us, that his is considerably better kept.” 

“Yeah. I. I could… I could get myself a haircut.” 

“And you know, while you’re at it, I really think perhaps you should take the day off. Maybe go look for some of those professional clothes you were thinking about, you know, just to get an idea of what you’d like to wear.” Aziraphale beams at him. “I can do all the shelving on my own. I don’t think I’ve _ever_ given you a day off and employers should generally allow vacation time, I think. I’m under the impression, anyhow.” 

“Um.” Dirk hesitates. “If… you’re sure.” 

“I am. Here.” Aziraphale hands him a business card. Dirk wonders if he miracled it up. He knows better than to ask. “My barber’s address. Have a nice day off.” 

“I will. Um, thank you.” 

“Not a problem.” 

Aziraphale’s barber, Curtis, is impeccably dressed with a well trimmed beard, and Dirk really didn’t expect any different. 

“Right,” he says, looking at him in the mirror. “What would you like?” 

Dirk shifts in his barber’s chair. “Er. Short?” 

Curtis stares at him and sighs. 

“This is, presumably,” he answers wearily. “Why Mr. Fell doesn’t send me many referrals.” 

Dirk manages to find a haircut in one of the books of photos Curtis has got. He awkwardly fidgets with his hands in the chair, a little anxious. Aziraphale’s right. It’s been a while since he’s done much for himself. Something about it makes him nervous. 

Right up until he actually sees himself in the mirror. 

“Oh,” he whispers, staring. It’s much shorter. He doesn’t need to tuck it behind his ears anymore, and it’s a bit swooshy in the front, but he thinks it’ll be less swooshy when combed properly. He hasn’t really gotten a haircut since Cambridge. Mostly he’s been trimming it himself when it started getting too out of hand. “I look… like a person.” Like _him_. The new version of him, the one he likes better. The one he’s working to mold.

“Yes.” Curtis looks at the pile of hair on the ground. “That… certainly was a lot.” 

“Thank you. It’s… it’s very good. Thanks.” Dirk reaches for his wallet. “How much?” He knows it’s got to be pricey (both Aziraphale and Crowley tend to have expensive tastes), but he’s got more money stored up than normal, so he thinks he can splurge a little. 

“It’s been taken care of.” 

“…I’m sorry?” 

“You don’t have to pay. It’s been taken care of.” 

“I don’t understand, I-“ 

“It’s,” Curtis says, with an air of infinite patience. “Been taken care of.” 

Dirk blinks, looking down at his wallet, and Curtis’s business card from Aziraphale tucked neatly inside. 

He looks back up at Curtis. “Can I tip you or-“ 

“Taken care of.” 

“Will…” Dirk puts his wallet back in his pocket. “Will you thank him for me?” 

“I’d rather you do it.” Curtis starts sweeping up the hair. “He does this smiley thing and talks about the inherent goodness of mankind whenever I thank him for tips and the like and it freaks me out a little.” 

Dirk is trying to figure out what style says _him._ He definitely knows he has to look _professional_, but really, professional isn’t him, and while he’s certainly going to try to succeed at that, he doesn’t think he can fully manage it. So he needs something else, something that feels more like his sort of style, to balance out the professionalism.

The store he’s in has plenty of white button downs and nice black slacks, so he gets four of each. He looks over the ties, but they’re all very normal and he’s not sure he likes them, so he just sticks with the other clothes. Worse comes to worse, he’ll just go for business casual. He thinks that’s what “no tie” means. He’s strolling through the store when he pauses, something catching his eye. He shifts his shirts and pants over to his other arm so he can touch it. 

It’s beautiful, he thinks, a little dazed. It’s been so long since he wore anything with color. He’s missed it, and this is _so_ much color. 

He picks up the yellow jacket and adds it to the pile. 

He heads for the register. This will also be a little bit of a splurge, but without the haircut added in, it should be good. 

“Oh,” the woman at the counter says when she sees his card. “No, you’ve been paid for.” 

“I’ve been _what?_” 

“Paid for. You’re all set.” 

“I _can’t_ have been.” 

“Well, you have.” 

“But-“ 

“Look,” the woman says, looking vaguely annoyed. “You’ve been paid for. I can’t change it. So _please_ get out of the line, people are going to line up behind you and it’s going to get long and messy and it’s going to cause me more work.” 

Dirk dazedly bundles his clothes off into a shopping bag and leaves. 

“Oh, look at that lovely yellow jacket,” Aziraphale says delightedly when Dirk enters the next day. “It’s a wonderful color on _oof_.” He gets cut off by Dirk immediately throwing his arms around him in a hug. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. 

Aziraphale awkwardly pats him on the back. “No trouble. It’s all… tickety boo.” 

“Too much color,” Crowley says from where he’s artfully lounging on the couch. “S’all sunshiney and what have you.” 

Dirk pulls back from Aziraphale, trying to surreptitiously wipe his eyes. “I thought you hated the other jacket I had.” 

“Hmph. Well.” Crowley returns his attention to his copy of The Sun, which Dirk’s pretty sure he just brought in here to annoy Aziraphale. “Least you did something about the hair." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Aziraphale’s shop always has precisely as much room for books as he needs, whenever he needs it
> 
> -Aziraphale technically runs a business but the business part of it is nearly against his will
> 
> -as someone who has a tendency to let her appearance fall significantly by the wayside when depressed, Dirk’s a whole ass mood here
> 
> -I do actually know what Aziraphale and Crowley’s “guidance” happened to look like, and I might write it as a one shot in this verse once I’ve finished with this one
> 
> -I didn’t end up using it, but I did see that Aziraphale’s Barber is a tag you can use for characters and I love every single one of you sons of bitches
> 
> -I originally had a line about how there’s been someone in Curtis’s family who’s been a barber every generation going back a couple centuries, and how Aziraphale’s never had to change to a different barber family since he found that first of the Curtises way back, and I ended up cutting it but I thought y’all might like the tidbit
> 
> -I think the funky ties will be part of Dirk’s growth and settling into himself after this fic takes place. Baby steps and all that
> 
> There’s only about four or five chapters left, I think. Not too long now!


	13. thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Crowley finds out that Dirk can't drive and is aghast.

Dirk feels more like he’s supposed to be in one of the restaurants they stop at this time. Vaguely respectable, even. Crowley, per usual, shows no sign of caring of how much either of them look like they’re supposed to be there. 

“Do you know where to make business cards?” Svlad asks. 

“Do I _look_ like someone who needs business cards?” 

“You look like someone who doesn’t need them but has them printed up anyway.” 

He makes a face. “I don’t know where to make business cards.” 

“I was thinking something snappy. Like _Dirk Gently, Holistic Detective: Cases Solved With Arguable Efficiency._” 

“They’re your business cards.” Crowley takes a bite of his crab. “Make the decision yourself, I’m certainly not here to be helpful to anyone.” 

“I wonder if Aziraphale has books about good kinds of paper for business card.” Dirk finishes off the last bite of his cod. "Does _he_ have business cards?” 

Crowley snorts. “You think the angel wants _more_ people to know the store exists?” 

“That’s true.” Dirk taps his plate against his plate thoughtfully. “Do you think I should put a caveat on the card that I can’t drive? I mean, I can’t see why it would be necessary but I don’t know if business cards are supposed to include a list of strengths and weaknesses. You know, strength that I can handily open a jar of pickles, weakness that I’m not trained in any form of combat. That sort of thing.” 

“_What?_” Crowley looks appalled. 

“I know, I know, you’re not here to be helpful, I was talking to my-“ 

“You don’t know how to _drive?_” 

“What do I need to know how to drive for? There’s buses and trains and walking and all that.” 

“Because it’s _fun_. I know how to drive. _Me._ I can do it.” 

“You have the benefit of exponentially more experience in existing than I do.” 

“You can’t be a detective if you don’t know how to drive.” 

“Sure I-“ 

“What if you’re escaping from someone you’re tailing and you could have the opportunity to drive away and you don’t know how to drive so you have to _walk_?” 

“Seems like a highly unlikely-“ 

“Makes you a pretty piss poor detective, is what it does.” 

“All right, that’s just _rude_.” 

“_Humans_.” Crowley shakes his head, looking annoyed. “You have all of creation at your fingertips, you invent one of the _greatest machines you could_, and then you don’t bloody bother to learn how to use them.” 

“I can do _other_ things with machines. I can send a fax.” 

“_Can_ you?” 

“…well. No. But hypothetically, yes, I could.” 

“So you can’t fax and you can’t drive.” He shakes his head again. “I don’t even know why I’m fighting about this with you, faxing is _infinitely_ less useful than the ability to _drive_. Being able to fax wouldn’t absolve you of your heinous crime.” 

“Oh, come on. There’s got to be more heinous crimes.” 

“_Not many._” He drums his fingers on the table. “All right, you know what, come on. Let’s go.” 

Dirk frowns. “I wanted to try their churros.” 

“I don’t care. Get up.” 

“This seems,” Dirk tells him. “Like the worst possible idea you could have.” 

“Oh, don’t be such a baby.” Crowley adjusts his glasses. “It’s not like you’re _actually_ going to drive it, you’re just getting an idea of what things look like.” 

“Why are we even _doing_ this?” Dirk’s white knuckling the steering wheel, the sleeves on his white button down rolled up, yellow jacket in the backseat of Crowley’s very old car that he doesn’t know the model of. Crowley’s lounging in the seat next to him. “Why are you letting me sit in the driver's in _this_ car, isn’t this _yours_, you seem _exactly_ like the sort to be against anyone being in the driver’s seat but him-“ 

“You’re not driving it. If you were driving it, then I would boot you out right on your arse, but you’re not, you’re going to sit there and I’m going to point out things you should know about a car.” 

“This car is _old_.” 

Crowley looks affronted. “I’ve had her since _new.”_

“But she’s not new anymore, she’s old, and if I get into a modern car, I’m not going to know how to drive it!” 

“It’s all the same thing, just gears and, I dunno, wires.” 

“Oh my god, I’m gonna get in the driver’s seat of a car someday and I’m going to die just turning the thing on.” 

“Give me a little credit, all right, the know-how is not the most important thing.” 

“Is it the license?” 

Crowley laughs. “_Licenses_.” 

“Then what?” 

“You’ve just got to believe that you can do it.” 

“_What?_” 

“Listen, if you think you can drive, you can drive.” 

“That’s not how it _works._” Dirk feels apprehensive just being in the _seat_. He wouldn’t put it past himself to accidentally start the car and crash them into something else. Even if Crowley wouldn’t let them crash. Well, maybe. He might think it a life lesson. Or funny. Probably funny. 

“Sure it is.” 

“Maybe for _you,_ but-“ 

Crowley sighs loudly. “What did I say when I cajoled Aziraphale into hiring you?” 

“It was really more bullying than-“ 

“_What did I say?_” 

“I don’t know! Something about turning me into something!” 

“I threaten to turn lots of people into lots of things. What _else?_” 

Dirk tries to drag up the memory. “You said I would be good for a laugh, which, thank you for that, by the way.” 

“Well, I was right, but I _said_ you could be _interesting_, because of your whole-“ He waves a hand. “Universe thing. And you need to start connecting into that universe thing more, because it’ll increase your interesting level. If it’s going to want you to be useful, it’s going to have to work for you sometimes. And one of the ways it can work for you, if it wants you to be doing whatever the hell it wants you to be doing, is letting you drive even if you’re not entirely certain how to do it. So, y’know, give it a go, at some point, and if it doesn’t work, then you can do the whole boring learning and getting licensed thing.” 

Dirk hesitates. “This feels like the sort of thing where I shouldn’t trust in the universe.” 

“Which is why I’m going to point out things in the car because Aziraphale will never let me hear the end of it if you get into an accident and die. That’s the gas, that’s the brake, that’s the wheel, that’s the fiddly bit, what d’you call it, the mirror…” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow is going to be busy and I might not have the opportunity to post, so I’m getting it done now!
> 
> -I originally had it so Crowley was actually showing Dirk how to drive, but I think the only person he’d let drive the Bentley would be Aziraphale and only then maybe, so I modified it
> 
> -the headcanon that Crowley doesn’t actually know how to drive, just thinks he can, absolutely delights me so I included it here
> 
> -Crowley does not have a license. If he has anything, it’s a Ron Swanson style permit that just says “I can do what I want”


	14. fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Dirk gets his first semblance of a case, and we come to the beginning of the end.

Dirk’s apartment is tiny, but this one at least has windows. He hangs a little black Christmas ornament of a cat in one of them. He’d like a cat one day, he thinks. He also gets himself a record player. His last apartment was too quiet, and he’d like more pleasant noise. He doesn’t know how to shop for music anymore, but he’s sure he can figure it out. 

One day after finishing shelving and getting ready to go home, Aziraphale cheerfully goes “just one more thing!” and bustles off. He returns with a large wooden box that appears to be full of records. 

“Crowley has informed me that Victrolas are no longer-“ he puts the box down so he can make air quotes. “_A thing_, but you know, I have plenty of records hanging about that should play adequately. All the greats are there, Schubert, Bach, Tchaikovsky, everyone of note.” 

Dirk peers down at the box, records with classical music on their spines filling it tightly. For all Aziraphale has said about them hanging around, they seem to be perfectly new. “They’re wonderful.” He smiles up at Aziraphale. “Thank you.” 

“No trouble, no trouble.” He gestures towards the door. “Now, on your way, if you don’t mind, Crowley and I have an appointment at the Ritz.” 

Aziraphale tends to refer to getting meals with Crowley as _appointments_. Dirk’s not quite sure what side of this whole situation with them it falls on, whether it’s easier for him to reconcile an angel and a demon having dinner together as a business meeting, or if it makes the other thing easier, the thing where the only person Crowley only ever seems to smile at is Aziraphale, and how Aziraphale says _my dear_ just a little different to Crowley than he does to Dirk. It’s none of his business, though, and for once, he doesn’t want to pry into something that isn’t his business. 

So he says “sounds nice”, hefts his box, and heads out the door. 

He’s settling in for the evening with his leftover box of cold pizza when he decides to give the record player a go. To be honest, he’s never been much for classical music, but he certainly does want something pleasant, and this seems to be the way to do it. Besides which, the fact that he was given a gift means the world to him. He heads for the box and opens it up. 

Three or four of the records are still classical music: the Tchaikovsky, the Mozart. However, the box is now overwhelmingly full of a different sort of album. Dirk carefully pulls out _A Night at the Opera_, one of the other Queen records that have appeared in the box. He runs a finger over the cover and smiles. 

When he eats, he starts as _Death on Two Legs (Dedicated To…)_ starts playing from the little machine in the corner. 

Dirk's newly gotten phone wakes him up in the morning and, after some growling and cursing at it, he answers it. 

“Hello?” 

“Are you the one who keeps leaving detective cards pinned up on every cork board in every cafe in Soho?” 

“Yes.” He yawns. “Are you calling to tell me to take them down in your establishment? That one by the Starbucks already told me to, so-“ 

“No,” she interrupts. “I’m calling because I’ve lost my snake and I need someone to find it.” 

“Oh. _Oh._” He sits up abruptly. “Yes. Yes, of course. Just, um, just give me your address and I’ll be right, right on my way, don’t worry, I’m very efficient and detectivey.” 

He jots down her address, leaves a hasty voicemail to Aziraphale that he needs to take a personal day, scrambles to throw his clothes on, and hurries out the door. 

Finding the boa constrictor (which vaguely terrified him) leads to finding an extremely valuable necklace that belonged to the client’s grandmother and disappeared buried in the roots of the tree Dirk had found the snake (named Zsa Zsa Gaboar, evidently). It’s not quite the grand exciting case Dirk had pictured for his first, but the woman beams like anything when he returns them to her, and he gets a little glowy feeling in his chest that finally, for once, he’s managed to help someone. When he comes in the next day, Aziraphale demands he regale him with the tale, which he does, even though it’s a short story. 

“It wasn’t you that Dirk went to find, was it?” Aziraphale asks, brow furrowed. 

Crowley snorts. “I’d have more class than to get lost in my own backyard,” he answers sullenly. 

“No, you wouldn’t,” Dirk says, because he doesn’t know what they’re talking about but he knows that’s incorrect. 

Dirk drops the book he was shelving. He’s fairly certain he had nothing to do with it. 

Dirk’s work essentially becomes glorified pet and occasional side thing finder, which he’s not sure really count as cases, but mean he gets to keep working at the bookshop and working his way steadily through memorizing the discography of Queen he now owns, so really, it all works for him. 

Except he’s not sure it does. 

He can feel something in the air. It’s not dissimilar to the out-of-jointness he sees around Aziraphale and Crowley, or to the feeling he gets when he’s about to get an intuition, which is what he’s resolutely started calling the odd feeling the universe gives him. 

Something, he thinks, is going to change. 

He does his best to ignore it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearly there, y'all! Classes have just started for me again, but I'm going to try and remember to post new chapters around it.
> 
> -this series is really like “how much foreshadowing for Dirk Gently can I pack into a story” sometimes
> 
> -Aziraphale had heard that housewarming presents were a thing and asked Crowley what to get but Crowley was busy winding him up by suggesting things like a mace for hitting people who ignored do not solicit signs so he figured it out on his own
> 
> -Dirk doesn’t know that Crowley can turn into a snake, but he sure can rely on his instinct to burn him


	15. fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Dirk comes to a realization.

“I think I should get a pet,” Dirk tells Aziraphale.

Aziraphale makes a face. “Pet hair gets _everywhere_.”

“Cats are nice, though. Aren’t we supposed to love all creatures, great and small?”

“_Yes_.” He doesn’t look up from organizing his collection of Marlowe works. “But we don’t need to love that they get hair all over books and clothes and the like. I’m very particular about this jacket, you know. I’ve had it for ages.”

“Centuries ages or-“

“_Ages_,” he cuts Dirk off crossly. “Why not get something without hair? Like maybe a nice snake or the like.”

“Because I _want_ a cat. I could name her after a Queen song or something.”

Aziraphale sighs. “It’s a pity that Crowley has persuaded you to listen to the boogie-woogie as extensively as you do.”

“Oh, come on.” Dirk finishes organizing the Jonson collection. “If you didn’t like it at least a _little_ bit, you wouldn’t have let Crowley keep a record in the store.”

“If he’s going to agree to watch the store, certain sacrifices have to be made.”

“I think he’d watch the store no matter whether you let him keep _A Day at the Races_ here or not.”

He sniffs. “We can agree to disagree. Anyhow, if you get a cat, please refrain from dragging the cat hair along with you.” 

“Well, I’m not going to get one right off.”

“Probably sooner rather than later.” Aziraphale starts looking for his copies of Shakespeare plays printed between 1901 and 1919. “You’ve got a stable home and all that.”

That feeling comes again. The feeling of change. Something in what Aziraphale has just said isn’t quite right.

It’s unnerving.

“What do you do?” Dirk asks while sorting through one of the crates of books. “When you can feel something different is coming, I mean. How do you handle it?” 

“I properly explore all my options and calmly work through my feelings about it,” Aziraphale answers primly. 

“Panic,” Crowley says, back to playing with a yo-yo and doing tricks executed too fast for Dirk to pick up on what he’s doing, exactly. “Panic is the word you’re looking for, angel.” 

Aziraphale makes this sort of annoyed sniffing noise. Dirk turns to Crowley. “What about you?” 

“Burn down whatever the problem is,” he answers easily. 

“So you panic, too?” 

“No,” Crowley says, at the same time Aziraphale says “yes”. 

“Right. So you’ve been no help at all.” 

Aziraphale looks at him thoughtfully. “What do you think the change is supposed to be?” 

“I don’t know.” Dirk neatly puts the lid back on the crate. He’s not sure what Aziraphale does with the crates, exactly, but he always likes to leave them the same, sans books. “I just know something is coming.” 

“Well, maybe it’s a good something." 

He straightens, stretching his back a little. “It’s never a good something.” 

“There’s a first time for everything.” 

Dirk's in the shop the next day, wandering around. He’s already scared off two customers by cheerfully talking about the gentlemen from the infectious diseases research department at Cambridge (which he’s pretty sure doesn’t actually exist but there’s no reason for them to know that) had just come by the other day whispering about how they “can’t believe they’ve lost it” and “we have to contain this area as quickly and quietly as possible”, so he’s really fulfilled his duties for the day. Now he’s just looking about aimlessly, at the various facets of the shop, taking in what he hadn’t before. He wanders up to Aziraphale’s sizable globe and starts spinning it. He’s sure it’s a great deal older than he is, though, so he does it very slowly. His finger traces along the globe until it comes to a stop. A jolt travels up his hand, and he understands, suddenly, looking at the world, what it is that’s supposed to change. 

“Oh,” he murmurs, a little mournfully. “I see.” 

“See what?” Aziraphale asks cheerfully, coming up behind him. His smile fades a little looking at the expression on his face. “Dirk, is everything all right?” 

“I know what it is.” His finger is resting just off the coast of America still. He’s been somewhat unable to move it. “The change.” 

“What?” 

“I’m supposed to go away.” He moves his hand back from the globe. “To America, I think. It’s time to move on.” 

“_What_?” Aziraphale sounds slightly upset. “My dear boy, you really don’t- I’m sure there’s-“ 

“There isn’t.” Dirk looks over at him. “I could avoid it and resist it all I wanted, but I’d end up going eventually. That’s how it works. I don’t get a say.” 

“Oh. Well.” Aziraphale’s hands do something slightly flustery in his lap. “How much… time, do you have?” 

“It won’t take me long to pack up. Within the week, I suppose. Might as well do it within my own time than be pushed out.” Dirk folds his arms and draws tightly into himself a little. It’s upsetting. He’s got a home here, a place of his own, people who like him, a job and a life, all to be uprooted on the whim of the stream of creation. 

Dirk wants to stay here, and work in the shop with Aziraphale, and listen to his records, and bicker with Crowley. He wants more for himself, and better. 

He’s never allowed it, ultimately. It never gets to stay the same when things are good, only change when things can be bad. 

“Well,” Aziraphale says again, after a beat. “Maybe it can still be good. Maybe you’ll find exciting things in America. Friends, even. Good things, I’m sure.” 

“I’m glad you’re sure.” Dirk stares resentfully at the globe, even knowing the whole situation has very little to do with it, and is therefore probably unfair to the object. “One of us should be.” 

“Maybe it’s good because you’re ready.” 

“Ready for what?” 

“When you came into my shop demanding a job, you were out of sorts, upset about your time at Cambridge, too sad to do anything with your appearance, too little money to change the way you lived. Now you’ve had some work experience, you’ve got a job, you’ve managed to put Cambridge behind you. You’re well groomed and can live how you like for a bit. Maybe it’s time to go because you’re _ready_ to go. Maybe only good things can happen to you from here on out because you’re finally where you’re supposed to be, you know, in your life and all.” 

Dirk looks at him for a long moment. Aziraphale looks back, secure and steady. 

“The universe does bring me good things, occasionally,” he says. “It brought me here. To you lot. And I owe it for that.” 

Aziraphale smiles at him. Dirk, despite all he’s feeling, smiles back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter left, gang! I was worried it was a little too abrupt, but the story had really run its course up to this point, so I tried to do it as neatly as I could.
> 
> -“cats are nice” is definitely a reference to the shark kitten in the future, but it is mostly a reference to Sir Terry in Sourcery
> 
> -the line about the boogie-woogie is one of my favorites in this whole thing
> 
> -for y’all who might not know, Christopher Marlowe, Ben Jonson, and Shakespeare were all contemporaries, and I was too tickled by the idea of including them in this chapter not to
> 
> -I also enjoyed coming up with ways for Aziraphale and Dirk to scare customers off from the bookshop


	16. sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An end and a beginning.

“Here,” Aziraphale says warmly, handing him a package wrapped in brown paper. “Now, do be sure to only open it once you’re on the plane, I want it to be a surprise.” 

“I will,” Dirk promises, sliding it into his bag. There’s not much to go with him- he’s already shipped his records to the little flat he’s managed to find for himself, which just leaves his clothes, packed in a suitcase, and a carry on, which is a very nice briefcase that he’s bringing on the plane with him. He can’t help feel a little heartened by Aziraphale’s speech from a few days earlier, that perhaps it’s time. He’s finally ready to be himself. 

He might be able to manage that. 

“Now, _do_ be careful, Crowley’s told me all about American movies and they seem to be rather violent, so don’t anger the wrong people.” 

“I won’t,” he lies, just knowing himself and knowing how things go, and knowing that he’s very likely to upset all sorts of people, right and wrong. 

“And call to check in every once in a while, won’t you, I’m admittedly not consistent in using the telephone, but I’ll be sure to check my ansaphone every now and again and get back to you. Crowley managed to get it to work with my original telephone, you know, he’s much better at the electronicals than I am.” 

“I will.” 

Aziraphale holds out his arms. Dirk gives him a hug, trying not to get teary. Aziraphale pats him on the back a couple times. He hugs like someone who doesn’t really often do it, but is quite enthusiastic (and a bit awkward) when given the chance.

“It’s going to be all right,” he says confidently. “I’m rather convinced of it. All well and good, I assure you.” 

“Okay.” Dirk pulls back, shouldering his briefcase. “Thank you, Aziraphale. For all of it.” 

“Of course, of course.” He smiles at him. Dirk wonders if he’s a little teary, too, or if he’s just seeing things. “Now, on you go, you don’t want to be late for your flight.” 

He gives him a little wave. “Bye.” 

“Mind how you go.” 

Dirk pulls out the handle and rolls the suitcase out the door, neatly closing it behind him, only to see Crowley standing there, hands in pockets, giving him a steely look, as best Dirk can tell from behind the sunglasses. 

“Was wondering if you’d show up,” Dirk says, stopping dead on the stoop. “You up and vanished for the past couple days.” 

Crowley sniffs. “Had important business to tend to. Can’t always be hanging round here." 

Dirk doesn’t blame him. He tends to avoid goodbyes, too. “Makes sense." 

They stand in silence on the doorstep, right where they were the first time they met. 

“Thank you,” Dirk says eventually. “For getting me in the door.” 

He pulls a face. “Wouldn’t’ve, if I knew you were gonna set up shop for so long.” 

“I don’t think I believe you." 

They’re quiet again. 

“I won’t say you’re nice,” Dirk tells him. “Because I think it’d make you mad. But I appreciate the Queen records.” 

“Well. Can’t go round just listening to _classical_ music. Practically a win for Aziraphale’s side.” Crowley sticks his hands in his pockets. “You do know that the wanker with the mustache’ll be overseas, don’t you?” 

“I do. It doesn’t matter. I’ll have to go there anyway.” 

“Hm.” Crowley pulls another face. “Remember what I told you about the car. Driving might as well entertain someone over there if it’s not going to entertain me. Feather in my wing and all that.” 

“Don’t worry. I won’t forget about anything you’ve told me.” 

“I don’t _worry_, human. I absolutely _swan_ through life.” 

“I know. Aziraphale gave me your mobile number, by the way.” 

“He _shouldn’t_ have. That’s a purely work number.” 

“And an Aziraphale number.”

Crowley glowers. “Aziraphale is a work number.”

“Only some of the time.” Crowley does look tempted to smite him then, so Dirk quickly moves on, not sure if demons can actually smite but unwilling to find out. “And I won’t use it often. Just to check in every now and again." 

It’s another one of those silent moments, where neither, Dirk knows, is sure of what exactly to say. 

“You’ve really got to pick a new scarf, you know,” Dirk finally says, looking him up and down. This is easiest for him. He thinks it’ll be easiest for Crowley, too. “Red for a demon’s a bit on the nose, isn’t it? A little predictable.” 

He scoffs. “I’m not taking any bloody fashion advice from the man in the _bright yellow jacket_, all right, I didn’t think it could get any worse than the brown suede jacket but you’ve managed to unpleasantly surprise me after all." 

“Peas in a pod, evidently.” 

“Hmph. Get out of my way, I’ve got an appointment at a graveyard tonight and I want to talk to the angel first.” Crowley brushes by Dirk and sweeps into the store, the door shutting behind him. 

Dirk closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. He just stands there on the step, eyes shut, outside the best place he’s ever been, and the closest thing to family he’s ever had. 

Then he opens his eyes, steps away from the bookstore, and hails a cab. 

Dirk settles into his seat on the plane. It’s an end seat, which isn’t ideal, but it’s by the window, so it’s a lot of ups and downs. He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out the package in brown paper, tugging it off. 

It’s the same copy of _A Murder is Announced_ that Aziraphale first gave him so long ago in the bookstore, the green cover and the gold lettering pristine. He could cry. 

He doesn’t read it. Not yet. He will, at some point during this flight. For now, Dirk just hugs it to his chest and watches England vanish beneath him, trepidatious and excited and wistful all at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait to post this until tomorrow, and then I decided to rip the bandaid off.
> 
> So here it is! I know the ending is bittersweet, a little bit. Some years do pass between the end of this and the beginning of DGHDA season one, so I think those years is where Dirk fully, properly turns into the version of himself we see in season one.
> 
> I do have a couple other things plotted for this verse- a oneshot where we get to see Dirk purchase his apartment in this story that just never made it in, and a oneshot after this story where Dirk feels the ripple effects of the Apocalypse That Wasn't. The second one is actually written and will be posted at some point in the next couple weeks.
> 
> Thanks so much to all of you for your kind words throughout this fic. I am so glad y'all liked it! Y'all are rockstars.
> 
> [Every once in a while one of my fics gets a bunch of comments in a cluster from different users, and I’m pretty sure at this point it’s because it’s been recced. Which is exciting! But I’d love to see it when it happens, so here’s a link to my tumblr! Feel free to tag me!](https://cosmicoceanfic.tumblr.com/)


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